


Matrimonial Misadventures

by Likorys



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Geralt is bad at feelings and Jaskier is somehow worse, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Requited Unrequited Love, Unintentional Courtship, brief graphic description of animal's death, discussion of doubiously consensual sexual services and sexual coersion (not between main couple), ensemble of OCs and made-up towns, fluff and pining galore, gratuirious insertion of songs and my original poetry, gratuitious insertions of random lore into Netflix canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 36
Words: 85,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28639713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likorys/pseuds/Likorys
Summary: Neither Jaskier nor Geralt had ever planned to marry. The bard is young and free-spirited, still in love with Elaine de Stael and desperate to find his fame in the open world – it wouldn’t be fair to push it onto anyone. Geralt is a witcher, with life strife with danger and death at any moment – it wouldn’t be fair to drag anyone into such existence.It probably would’ve worked out much better if they could stop courting each other for longer than a week.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 102





	1. It begins.

Posada is an awful place, the kind that Jaskier would pass on completely if it weren’t for the way hunger stopped biting at him. It is never a good sign to _stop_ being hungry, not when he had nothing but water for days - he learned it in the first weeks after he snuck out of the carriage meant to bring him home from Oxenfurt. When he clashed with the world, when he spent a month getting more and more desperate until he broke into a stranger's pantry and then gorged himself for a blissful moment before he threw it up even sooner, throat burning with bile and stomach twisting into knots.

No, hunger being gone only means trouble and sickness when he manages to find something at long last, and he is not about to waste an occasion for money like that.

The name is vaguely familiar, but he spares it little thought as he tries to bargain his singing in exchange for a meal. After being refused he still sings, because his pride is more fragile than he’d even admit out loud, but also from pure spite and to annoy the people enough to make them shut him up. Either by kicking him out, which will only mean a bruise of two, or by giving him food, be it by buying it or throwing it at him.

There isn’t much to lose here.

Still, Posada is awful, which is exactly why the loner brooding in a corner, clad in all black, catches his attention. Jaskier knows of mercenaries and muscles for hire, his family used them often enough for him to recognize the stiff stance, the battle-ready look, the heavy build. He’s averse to using his actual name, with the way his family still waits to drag him back kicking and screaming, but if the man hailed from the coast then he might convince him to pay for his good graces with a dinner.

If not, well, he’s easy enough on the eyes when you look closer and he’s not above night of pleasure for a meal. He learned there is little difference between selling his voice or body, as long as he’s the one making the choice.

He will forever blame hunger for missing the massive swords kept right by stranger’s side, hunger and exhaustion only and _definitely_ not an embarrassingly sudden desire for hearing that gravelly voice getting _even more hoarse, for entirely different reasons_.

The coin is – well, it’s a surprise. The witcher was pretty obvious in trying to scare him off, yet still gave out the last of what he had. It was contradictory and fascinating and just screamed of _stories_ hiding in his past, and stories like that are exactly that Jaskier thrived on and spun into songs.

So he grabs the coin and follows the witcher. He prods and pushes and almost gets a broken rib in exchange, but every word coming from Geralt’s mouth serves only to make Jaskier more and more sure he just came upon something utterly captivating.

He could’ve done without being caught by elves and beaten, but the new lute is sublime - he knows very little about elves, as it was just rubbed into his face, but everybody knows that their instruments are something special. He could definitely do without losing whatever money he manages to save up for new lutes so often. Blasted things sound lovely, but are as fragile as glass - if not worse, when you account for the strings.

He still follows Geralt, new song twisting in his lungs, in and out as he tried it and remade it until it finally became the perfect tale of adventure to enthral the hearts of people.

A fragile glass pane casting pretty lights onto a boring story of catch-and-release, burned out in the fires of his rage and embarrassment and indignity till the flames went out. A smokescreen to put up in front of Geralt, to keep insults at bay and distort the view just enough for people to turn a kinder eye.

Geralt seems insultingly indifferent to his masterpiece, so when they set down for the night on a decently sheltered piece of a road (as in, Geralt does so and Jaskier follows despite the cold indifference), Jaskier bemoans cold and discomfort until Geralt takes pity on him and throws spare roll at his face. He grumbles without much heat and manages to curl around himself on half of the roll, pulling the other half up like an imitation of a blanket. It leaves him looking like a ball of yarn made purely of knots, but he ignores Geralt’s warning about cramps and loudly proclaims falling asleep.

He does twist a little, to reach into a pocket and rub at the small coin kept safe in there. It’s worth a little bit, an ale if you find a place with a kind enough innkeeper, but for him it’s priceless for all the different reasons. It’s a silly little gesture that Geralt had no obligation to do, yet performed none the less despite his glares and harsh words. It warms him better than anything else and lets him fall asleep despite the general nosiness of the wild forests he’s still not quite used to.

Any kind sentiment is utterly gone by the morning, when it turns out that the bastard was right and Jaskier wakes up with his leg half-numb and his foot doing its best to bend backwards with each step he takes. He grinds his teeth and follows Geralt still, despite the witcher's very obvious good humour coming so clearly at his expense.

Years later, when he recounts the birth of White Wolf to an eager crowd in some tavern in Aedirn, a few young women giggle quite excessively over the coin and it picks his interest. He buys them wine and tries to be subtle as he prods, until he gets a story about courting in Posada – a tradition born near mountains carved throughout by the mines, of spending your money right to the last coin only to mint a new one to give it specifically to your beloved. Promise of love in poverty and vow to give unto them even when there is nothing left.

He laughs it off awkwardly, excuses himself among their indulgent looks and then runs off with a bottle of wine to promptly drown his shame in, because of all the times he had ignored what’s in front of him, this one somehow still will seem the worst among them all.


	2. In which Geralt sneaks around.

Between Jaskier singing praises of White Wolf and Geralt being thrown the worst jobs for little to no pay, the end of the summer and most of the autumn is spent on travelling. The song is popular, almost unbelievably so, but while music might soothe the hearts for a meal or two, it does much too little to open doors or pockets.

Jaskier thought he was prepared for it, well versed in cruelty of people that can lower themselves to whenever they find themselves a scapegoat to throw their anger and pains at. And yet, when he sees first-hand the lies about contracts, the cheating when it comes to money, the weaselling out of contract all together… he forgoes the dying remains of his pride and all but stitches himself to Geralt’s side like a bright flower made from scraps, obviously hiding an ugly tear. In exchange he gets covered with so much monster unmentionables he’s damn sure it’s done on purpose, but in exchange he makes himself a known nuisance to whoever Geralt brings proof of job well done.

Jaskier adores the looks he gets, a silly bard in worn-out silks at the side of the Witcher, all pity and indulgence and mockery, at least right until he opens his mouth and threatens them with alerting the king about misappropriation of funds, all with the brightest of his fake smiles.

After he opens his mouth and works words like a spider spinning his webs,  _ oh _ , then it’s all the most exquisite shock and anger and finally begrudging disgruntlement when they remember just whom he’s draped over or leaning against. Geralt harps on him later about the touching, but he tunes it out since he never actually pushes him away.

It soothes a place deep within Jaskier’s mind, the place still full of venom from his childhood, of scathing words and constant reprimands, of stares sliding off him and hands waving his dismissal.

It’s all still infuriating enough to witness that it boils Jaskier’s blood, so when winter starts looming over he lies through his teeth about some odd job in Novigrad and whines until Geralt agrees to escort him there, if only to get him to shut up. The witcher might roll his eyes and grumble, but when he truly needs silence Jaskier gives it to him, as much as he can. It’s mostly at nights, when Jaskier’s having his bout of insomnia which he tries to strum away on the lute and Geralt will jolt from his sleep, breathing ragged and eyes wild.

Jaskier kept quiet then, after the snarling he got for attempting conversation the first time. He strums the lute, hums wordless tunes and makes himself a loud, constant distraction from whatever ails Geralt, but not never too much for him to stand – more of a honeybee passing by than a mosquito buzzing by your ears.

_ That _ he has more than enough practice performing.

They stop in a little town close to the Pontar river for the night and Jaskier goes inside first to buy them a room while Geralt takes care of Roach. The thought of a real bed is nicer than he ever thought it might be, since following witcher means many more nights in the woods than any sane human should even resign themselves to.

He’s chatting up the young women managing the rooms when the sudden silence tells him Geralt caught up to him and then it only gets worse. It always does, somehow, and Jaskier begins to loath silence on sheer principle of being portent of trouble.

“Get out!” The owner brandishing a broom like a weapon looks silly enough to make Jaskier snort, but the hateful look he throws at Geralt sobers him up pretty quickly.

It’s always the same, silly little people with boring little lives who try and make them more interesting by fabricating rumours, all fun and games until the monster from the stories suddenly appears at their door in the flesh.

“Is there a problem, good sir?” Jaskier all but prances to them, putting a hand on the man’s arm and squeezing just a tad too tight in a warning and distraction both, before standing by the witcher. Who’s silent _like_ _every damn time_ problems come up and probably would’ve walked out already if Jaskier didn’t speak up.

The owner rolls his arm and gives him a dirty look.

“We’re decent folk here, work hard in the field! Bad enough he’s paid to chase some imaginary monster!” He looks at Geralt and spits at his feet. “I won’t have a witcher cross my door! Get out!”

Jaskier swallows down a snarl that starts to curl his lip and puts a hand to his hip instead, nails biting into his skin through soft silk.

“Not decent enough to honour honest payment?” He hisses, twirling the key to a room on his finger, glad he snatched it as soon as he paid. He wonders briefly if he should make the man swallow it, along with all the insults clearly still boiling inside him, but then Geralt grabs his wrist and-

Well. It might be the first time he touched him first, so Jaskier feels his attention is much better spent on him than some prejudiced idiots.

“Stay here, I’ll be fine.” Geralt looks at him too, eyes tired and worn out and Jaskier wants to punch him for being like this and then punch the owner many more times for being an utter waste of air.

“I told you-!”

“He’s no witcher. Or do you think he  _ sings _ monsters to death?” Geralt huffs something that could be a laugh. Or a decent attempt at mimicking a cat hacking a hairball.

“I take offence to that.” Jaskier mutters, crossing his arms as soon as the witcher lets go of his wrist. He’s as cold as ever, pretty silk useful to catch attention but not so much at warding off cold, but somehow his skin still burns from Geralt’s touch.

The owner grumbles under his nose, eying Jaskier’s lute as if he expected to see it transform into a sword after all, but finally says that  _ he _ can stay.

Only him. No witcher under his roof, of course, and he paid for the last room.

Jaskier gives a long, hard look to the girl by the counter and the line of keys on the wall, before he looks at the owner again, his own key clutched in his finger. There is much he could do and so much more he imagines himself doing, but then Geralt pushed him to the stair with the same tired promise that  _ he’ll be fine _ .

Later, in the room, Jaskier tells himself he’s just too cold and tired. That’s the reason why he ever agreed, usually ready to march out and shiver by a tree out of sheer principle. But the winter is fast on their feet, cold winds rolling from across the mountains and making nights unbearable even between the protection of the trees.

He’s checking the window and wonders if it’s worth it to forgo sleep and then run off with the surprisingly nice woollen blankets from the bed, just to be petty and get the last act if not word, when a hand grabs the window frame. He scrambles back, sputtering curses as Geralt climbs inside as if he didn’t just give him a heart attack.

“Warn me next time!” he hisses, jabbing a finger at a piece of skin between his armour pieces, but any anger fizzles out when the skin is as cold as ice to touch. Geralt is never warm, pale skin always cold to the touch, but it never stops surprising him.

He still looks the witcher over, unsure what exactly is the plan.

“The owner said-?” he starts, for the lack of anything better to say.

“Right.” Geralt flashes him a little smile, putting swords by the wall and Jaskier tries not to wonder how he even got up here in his full get up. “What did he say exactly?”

“-that  _ he won’t have a Witcher cross his door _ .” Jaskier repeats slowly, and then groans only a moment before Geralt points at the window,  _ didn’t mention them _ part of the sentence hanging silently in the air.

Bastard looks so pleased with himself Jaskier doesn’t even have a heart to do more than roll his eyes as he comes closer to help unbuckle the armour. It’s stupidly risky, it’s silly and it’s even more petty than stealing blanket in revenge, but it might be the first time Jaskier saw Geralt do anything against prejudiced bastards. He’s not gonna discourage it.

He does laugh at the situation, when they’re both trying to twist in a way that won’t end with either one falling off the narrow bed. It ends with Geralt huffing, the sound this time much gentler and closer to a laugh, before he just grabs Jaskier in the middle and brings him close in a not-quite-hug. It’s more of an awkward hold, and Jaskier knows all of those well enough to recognize someone unused to sharing such a gesture.

Jaskier does not blush like an inexperienced brat, because he is very much experienced with sharing a bed,  _ thank you very much _ . Just not with a Witcher whom until this point would, at most, lay on his roll to cover them with another, all the while grumbling about Jaskier tying himself into knots if he didn’t do it, the air between their backs holding out better than any physical barrier ever could.

Except that was all on the road and at most Jaskier had to watch out for the armour cutting his skin or moving out from under the roll, but now it’s just clothes, Geralt’s skin ice-cold under them, and the muscles still tense as he seems content to just tolerate whatever he does as long as it provides a night in decent bed.

Jaskier’s about to say something about self-sacrificial martyrs and their stupidity, when footsteps by the door make him freeze. He locked the door and kept the key twisted in the lock, he’s not an idiot, but he would prefer to actually get a night’s sleep in the bed. So he stays silent and just glares weakly in general direction of the witcher, who closed his eyes so he couldn’t see them in the dark.

Heavy feet shuffle about for a while before they move away with a muttered curse.

Jaskier swallows, takes a breath and then suddenly pushes closer, to stifle a laugh in Geralt’s arm. He ignores the questioning hum, trying his best to calm himself. It’s a work in progress for a while, because the image will just not leave his mind.

There is tradition around here, a pretty infamous one. Young boys would sneak to the bedroom of a girl, so her father can catch them. To avoid scandal an engagement would be announced, because servants would always know first and gossip.

Anything to avoid scandal, the golden rule of nobility.

It’s only in good fun these days, a game to make a boy pretend he fits so well into the family he can sneak in and none would be the wiser.

At least that’s what he was taught in lectures, but the unexpected fit of this situation to the tradition is still just too funny when Jaskier imagines them as such. He wonders who’d be the scoundrel here, Geralt with his climbing or him at risk of being disowned, but it only makes him bite down another fit of laughter.

Bard engaged to a Witcher, honestly.


	3. In which Geralt provides.

On the upside, the water-dwelling monster didn’t even scratch Roach when it attacked. She is shaken and will need a good session with a brush to make her look presentable, but otherwise unharmed. On the downside, it came at a price of a saddle bad being ripped open, its contest lost in the murky marsh, and with it whatever scraps of naivete Jaskier seemed to still have clung onto despite months on the road.

He’s still shaken by the sudden attack, barely hearing Geralt explain that the cold preventing travel must’ve made the thing jumpy. He doesn’t really care _why_ he almost got his head ripped off if he’s honest, but he doesn’t say it out loud. Geralt spent almost as much time patting him down as he did Roach before they started moving again, so he just takes it for the apology that it is.

He hopes his silence sounds out his gratitude too, because his tongue seems to have lost its way in his throat when it threatened to suffocate him as he swallowed back his scream.

Unfortunately, it means they lost what little provisions they still had. Only food and some random items, but going to sleep both hungry _and_ cold will just be a perfect ending to this shitty day, so Jaskier gives himself a while to just wallow in misery (because he does not _sulk_ , thank you very much) as he shakes in wet clothes.

He jumps at the burst of fire, head snapping up just in time to see Geralt snatch his hand back and the last licks of flame move in the air from where those weirdly positioned fingers were just a moment before, to the fire built brightly next to them.

He wants to be curious or angry, but all he feels is cold and hungry and tired, so he just throws Geralt a weak glare before huddling closer to the flames. He rubs his hands together, waiting until he gets the feeling back in his finger before he makes a clumsy dance of trying to take off wet clothes and put on something dry without actually exposing any skin to harsh winds.

“I resent that!” he snaps at Geralt’s chuckle, before sitting down again. “You take a dive the next time, see how well you do!” he grumbles, trying to rub away any leftover dampness off his skin before he covers himself in a blanket.

It still smells of that stupid inn and he feels viciously proud of actually sneaking out the window with it.

He warms himself by the fire, vaguely aware of Geralt walking off at some point. He must’ve dozed off, because the next thing he knows something is poking him in the side and the air smells vaguely of fish.

He rubs his eyes, grabbing at the offending thing and feeling wood. He blinks the exhaustion away as much as he can and finally sees a crudely carved spoon, a bowl laying by his feet. He gives Geralt a suspicious look, noticing the same set in his hands and a small pot hung over the fire.

“If that’s meant to be a symbol of how empty-headed I am…” he starts, only half-joking, but at Geralt’s confused stare just trails off without finishing.

Poor man clearly has no idea what he just did, does he? Or maybe it’s just Jaskier’s half-sleeping mind that goes into the weirdest places that no sane human nor witcher would ever think up to imagine? Well, no matter. He’s not gonna explain to Geralt that around Pontar’s delta you carve a spoon with some nice symbol for your betrothed. He doubts the witcher will be carving utensils for anyone in Oxenfurt, assuming he agrees to stay – he’s mildly surprised he even did it for him, if he’s honest.

“Thanks.” He says, before a yawn threatens to break his jaw. The lull of the fire almost puts him to sleep again before Geralt shakes him awake, a bowl filled with fish soup in his hand.

He mutters another thanks, then promptly curses himself when he burns his tongue, almost dropping the bowl and hissing as the hot soup splashes over his fingers. He ignores Geralt’s chuckles, but still glares until he puts their rolls one over another so they can share the blankets they have for the night. The armour is not the most comfortable back rest, but he’s managed worse.

He bites his lip to stop any silly comments about sharing a _proverbial bed_ as well, because they only miss feeding the damn soup to each other to complete the full courting ritual. He does snuggle right up to Geralt as much as he can, reaching to hide his cold fingers under his arm as a consolation for his restraint.


	4. In which Jaskier brings Geralt home.

In the end, Jaskier never actually asks. He just lies that the offer in Novigrad got snatched by someone else and  _ casually mentions _ about being an Oxenfurt student in his youth and just  _ wonders _ if Geralt has ever been there.

The witcher rolls his eyes at him.

“I appreciate it.” He says, and Jaskier doesn’t even have to fake his shameful blush, because the way Geralt’s eyes look should not be possible, nor should his own heart be still able to break in sympathy.

The winter does not care for their feelings, however. Winds push harder and harder, the ground welcomes them whitened with frost every morning and Jaskier has to brush the ice from his hair by the time they reach Malvo – the last town before Oxenfurt.

Jaskier’s ready to murder just to spend a night in a bed and not the open wild at that point. No matter how willing Geralt is to tolerate his snuggling with only minimal grumbling, the leather armour does not for a comfortable hugging partner make. So when they finally get past the shaky, wooden gate he shouts something about shopping at Geralt before running off for the small inn he knows.

He snuck out to get drunk here enough times when he was still a student and just walking in seems to lift a weight off his shoulders.

“Julek!” the matron spots him as soon as he sits by the bar and he makes a face at the dreaded name. He detests it, to a degree, if only because of who used it before and how.

“It’s Jaskier, Sarah, didn’t I tell you already?” He corrects with a smile, swinging the lute off his arm to lay it on his lap, but still keeping his arm through the strap.

The place is cosy enough, but also the last one before Oxenfurt, so whatever shady deals students get up to free from under their parents' control, they do so here and he’s not risking his lute. It survived half a year of following a witcher and saved him a fortune already, he’s not about to let some sticky-fingered thief sell it out for a cheap Fisstech.

“Jaskier, right.” Sarah shakes her head, clearly still as unimpressed with his new name as when he thought it up while drunk off his ass. Conscious choices were getting him nowhere though, and it grew on him. “So what lured ya for tha winter lectures?”

Jaskier makes a face at that.

“It was that or freezing our asses into actual blocks of ice.” He groans, at the raised eyebrow flushing just a little.

Right, the  _ us _ that became his new speech pattern, born from how little time he ever spends without Geralt by his side. Or the other way around rather, as he’s pretty sure it’s still him trailing after the witcher.

When he graduated, he was offered the opportunity to give lectures, should he ever feel a need, but besides the fact it was merely a courtesy offer made more to his parents and at him, there wasn’t actually a word about having someone stay with him. Geralt’s very good at intimidating whoever might complain when he’s actually by his side, but on his own Jaskier suddenly feels like a kid, running from home and hiding under this very same bar when the guard his parents paid to bring him home came a-knocking.

Sarah just laughed the guard off then then and she laughs now, before putting two ales in front of him.

“Sing ‘bout that Wolf o’ yours and dinner’s free.” She patted him on the arm and went back to work.

Right.

_ Melody _ is known for letting students come here to get their first taste of actually performing in front of people, and it’s not like he didn’t sing his way through the last year exactly like that, but-

This is _ home _ , or as close as he ever got to one. The dilapidated manor was little more than a cell, dreary and as stifling as the dark linens he was clothed in, halls too empty to hide and yet too suffocating to let him breathe. Oxenfurt never became more than school, not with the canes and the hierarchy, with a guard in a carriage awaiting his every release from lessons, not with the ceiling stretching high and yet seemingly crushing him flat on the ground. It was  _ Melody _ he spent nights writing songs or drinking or singing and playing, it was  _ Melody _ he carved his new name under a table and it was  _ Melody _ he cannot imagine losing.

He never cared for getting chased away for his songs – what should he care for opinions of fools who can barely count yet deem themselves worthy of deciding the worth of his art? They were always as meaningless as a pig turning their nose at gourmet meals in favour of a slop and barely touched him. 

If anything he revelled in those, riling the people up to get free food at the expense of their stupidity or made show of leaving right at Geralt’s heel, because  _ oh _ , did his rage at the prejudice and injustice and cheating never quite fizzle down, always a dim kindling ready to burst into blazing inferno with a strong enough wind.

This is different, this is his home and his very soul poured into songs – if he tries here and gets kicked out-!

A hand snatches a tankard from his hand and he almost falls from the chair in his haste to turn around.

“I was drinking that.” He mutters at Geralt, watching him dawn the ale and suddenly able to breathe again, some of the coils that tightened in his chest easing a little.

“Spilling it, more like it.” Geralt points his chin at a wet patch on the floor and Jaskier curses.

Hopefully Sarah didn’t see anything, he still remembers how his hands looked after cleaning up the whole place. It was the night he chose his new name and the pains he paid for turning over a table and cleaning it up might’ve been another reason to keep it, to not have the sacrifice and work be in vain.

“Have at it then.” He shrugs awkwardly and reaches to push the other ale to the witcher, but when he tries to bring his hand back cold fingers grab his wrist.

A moment later there is a pile of sugar candies on his palm, the cloth wrapping them a little dusty and the smell making his mouth water.

It takes him an embarrassingly short amount of time before he blushes all over, looking around to see if anyone noticed. Luckily it’s still early in the day and Geralt’s frame hid them from sight.

Good.

If anyone saw Geralt give him the Mika Candy they would never live it down! Thank Melitele for small mercies.

“What is it with you and, and-!” He gives Geralt a half-hearted glare and at his confusion just groans in frustration, free hand rubbing at his face. “Thank you, Geralt. Tried them yet?” he says with resignation, because there is just no use explaining.

Witchers live long, right? No wonder Geralt had stumbled his way into performing courting rituals for him by accident, even if it’s starting to look a little suspicious. With anyone else he would demand an explanation or an honest declaration. He’s not one to marry and settle down, sure, but he always kept faithful to those he seduced. So it isn’t as if he’s completely opposed to some kind of commitment, but this is  _ Geralt _ . Jaskier spent months with him, slept by his side on the forest ground still damp from rain with an empty stomach, he saw him cut through monsters and come out black-eyed and dripping gore.

Jaskier knows Geralt, and while he was many-a-thing,  _ subtle in romance _ he was not. He wasn’t even sure he knew romance existed – if it was a word in his personal vocabulary or if ‘sex’ was the only thing there.

The best he did was take the flowers Jaskier plucked from the side of the road before going for a brothel when their coin allowed it. It was Jaskier who charmed people, chatting them up and flirting and getting himself into a night or a few of fun.

Geralt would not be courting him with spoons and candies all the while not saying a single word about it. Which is good – not like Jaskier would even want Geralt to court him!

The very idea, honestly!

Geralt managed to finish the second ale during Jaskier’s little internal crisis and was watching him intently, face a little too alike to when he tried to pick up a trail of a monster for Jaskier’s comfort. So he took the coward's way out and put a candy in his mouth to keep himself from talking.

Geralt seemingly found whatever he was looking for because he just shrugged and sat next to him.

“Pure sugar’s a little too much.” He explained.

Jaskier frowned, before remembering how seemingly bland everything Geralt cooked was. There was fresh meat or fish, a few herbs, but that was it. He never protested, not one to look at a gifted meal in the bowl and often too hungry even if he was that rude, but with this little revelation it suddenly made sense.

Witchers weren’t human, of course they would have weird senses.

“Well, thanks either way.” He put on a smile and popped another candy into his mouth, before hiding the rest in his pocket.

With any luck Geralt would forget about it and he will never have to explain to him the mess of random confessions that seems to be happening between the two of them. Because how do you even ask a tentative friend if he’s aware he’s been courting you three different ways without losing said friend?

Of course, there was no such thing as luck in Jaskier’s life.

“Not sure why they were throwing them onto the street.” Geralt looked at him, again, and Jaskier gave up trying to avoid the subject.

It would be rude, when the witcher so rarely prompted him to explain anything, usually content to listen as Jaskier went on about any random topic that entertained his mind at the moment.

“There must be a wedding coming.” He explains, fingers drumming nervously on his lute. “You stock up on sugar, weave the linen, then make candies and wrap them up. Make a grand walk through the main street and throw candies for the kids to pick up and- you know. Show of good fortune and all that ostentatious posturing that people love.” He took a shaky breath, more angry at his own nerves than anything else. “Why, did someone catch your eye?” he joked.

The look Geralt gave him would’ve made his hearts shatter in pieces if the months by his side didn’t already ground it to dust, by situations like this one exactly.

“Witchers don’t marry.” Geralt’s tone was curt and obviously ended the topic. Jaskier wanted to prod – ask how many others were there, if he had someone like a family, why  _ didn’t _ they or maybe just him marry, did it mean he was always alone…

He bit his tongue to keep quiet while he looked around, desperate for distraction, and smiled when he noticed Sarah coming with two plates.

“Now, let me introduce you to the most beautiful woman this side of the Pontar river!” he announced, jumping to his feet and shrugging off the heavy feeling in his chest as sympathy for Geralt’s miserable life.

Whatever else would it be, after all.


	5. In which Jaskier fails at being petty.

“Jul-“

“Jaskier, headmaster, I’m sure you would’ve heard already.” Jaskier’s smile is tight as he corrects the old Jacobs, fingers clutching at his lute out of a habit. He would’ve probably broken any old one, so it’s probably a good thing his nails were currently bending over elven craft.

He remembers this damn room all too well, as well as how much knowledge they had beaten into him here, all the while keeping perfectly pleasant and benign.  _ Just doing their jobs _ , after all,  _ putting a stubborn brat in place _ .

“Right.  _ Jaskier _ .” Headmaster Jacobs gives him a disappointed stare, then his eyes slide off to the door.

Jaskier asked Geralt to wait outside. He’s pretty sure witcher hearing means he can still pick up every word, but he’s not about to divulge that little detail to the headmaster without prompting. Or payment. Or possible magic because there is no possibility in which he consents to giving the bastard anything without being forced-

“Jaskier.” Headmaster sighs before shaking his head. “Well, the matter of your -  _ career _ is none of our concern.” He says, in tone saying that he very much thinks the exact opposite, but with quiet resignation born from years spent teaching students only to watch them squander their lives. “After all, it isn’t as if you’re marring the name of our academy. Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s smile got a little bit tighter, showing off a little more teeth. He remembers some monster surprising him at the camp and his desperate biting into rotting flesh to chase it away. He wonders how much harder would it be to tear open flesh that’s still full of blood and not decayed.

“I’m more than happy to lecture for a winter under that name! No need to bring unnecessary trouble here, right?” he tries to cross his arms, but his fingers won’t stop clutching the lute, so he just hugs himself awkwardly with one arm.

He’d have done the very same thing daily, when his parents brought him here and dragged around the halls before promptly just going back without him, his luggage to be sent later. He wonders if Jacobs remembers him, the same pose only standing, in dreary black linens and with headmasters' hands keeping him in place.

“Right…” Jacobs reaches to his desk, shortly pulling up a small box, metal and paper moving inside as he gives it to Jaskier who almost sags in relief. “You’ll find the room, I trust? You can use the hall by the orchard; the views should help some with the mood for your lectures.”

Jaskier bites his cheek to stop an even more biting retort and only nods.

“A-any, mhh, any chance of getting a double bed?” he asked, with the box safely in his hands feeling a bit bolder and trying not to squirm under a judging glare like a schoolboy caught replacing master Evan music scrolls with jumbled mess.

He promised Geralt a winter in Oxenfurt and he’s gonna keep this promise, no matter the price. He’s ready to sell out to Sarah for the season of doing anything from singing to washing dishes, if it gives them a room for the season.

“Right, your- new patron.” Headmaster looks to the door again, now more wary. “As long as he causes no trouble he is welcomed here. Might be expected to help out if need be, of course, like any decent guest of Oxenfurt.”

“Of course.” Jaskier does roll his eyes then, before standing up. “We’ll be going for a stroll then and settle in the evening.” He adds and marches out the door, before Jacobs can add more and make him actually try and rip his tongue out whole.

He must look every inch as murderous as he feels, because when he storms through the corridor Geralt follows him without a word, clearly having heard every last word. At least he looks nothing even close to pity, so that’s a comfort. Jaskier isn't sure how he would’ve dealt with that.

The stroll does both help and makes things worse, rousing long-buried memories from their slumber, but at the same time letting him talk about the halls and the lectures and the building itself, the parts he loved and adored and was fascinated by. A witcher clearly had no need to learn who rebuilt which hall or what apple trees were planted in the orchard, but Geralt listens without a word of complaint. In exchange, Jaskier strays with him to the kitchens where he’s glad to see a few servants he remembers from his own time here still working. It lets him charm them into foregoing any spices as they scramble the eggs and bake the buns stuffed with cheese and ham, Geralt easily distracted with a story or two about Jaskier’s failed exploits in his school time. The pleased look on his face as he bites into a warm bun and doesn’t have to deal with overwhelming spices makes that horrendous conversation and every memory it brought up completely worth it.

The next days pass almost idly. Jaskier gives a few hours of lecture every morning, finishing around noon when he takes a meal to his room to share with Geralt. The Witcher spends that time with any and all books he can get his hands on, courtesy of Jaskier having free reign in the library, combined with sticky fingers and a very intricately sewn bag that was the be all or end all between some of his own lectures, helping him cheat around the lending limits. He’s also training, which probably replaced the exercise he would get with travel and jobs, or turning the desk in Jaskier’s room into herbalists wet-dream. Sometimes Jaskier will drag him back to the city nearby and sing in  _ Melody, _ adamant about spreading the tales of White Wolf even if he’s no longer traveling.

Then comes the first snow and Jaskier remembers running away with no more than clothes on his back and how little of them is left after traveling with a witcher. He resorts to bundling up in the blankets when he’s in the room and borrows a coat from Sarah so he won’t have to slog through his lectures through chattering teeth.

Geralt seems fine despite the weather, for all that he barely takes off the armour and seems cold as ice whenever Jaskier touches him by accident. So when he’s gone for a day all of a sudden and comes in the evening with a bundle tied by rope, Jaskier almost drops it when it suddenly lands in his hands.

“For you.” Geralt points awkwardly at the bundle before very subtly busying himself with the herbs on the desk.

“Of course.” Jaskier sits on the bed and begins untying the rope, just hoping it’s nothing that has been alive in the most recent past.

Then the fabric splays open – a woollen coat underlined with furs, a belt to keep it closed and a piece of fur that he finally recognizes as a muff.

He just stares at them, painfully aware of Geralt staring at him as well.

This cannot be, can it?

There is only  _ so many times _ Jaskier can deal with Geralt playing the courting game unawares!

This he had to have heard, every shop in Malvo would be advertising it and the coat was made by a master, he saw it in the even lined of contrastingly coloured threads and-

Jaskier frowned, looking the clothes over more carefully he felt some of his irritation melt. The fur was stitched on with a thicker thread, to hold and not look pretty, just like the muff was a lump made from a single piece to warm with no consideration for aesthetic…

Well, he appreciates the gesture of course, but not like it changed much, the coat was still bought! Geralt had to have seen or at least heard as he bought this damned thing, if a clerk didn’t try and ask him who's the lucky lady!

It’s a long-standing tradition that came from Oxenfurt, actually, born to facilitate trade and craft in what would be a small, nameless village in the time they built the academy and wanted people to stay, but evolving into an actual courtship. Coat for protection, belt for plenty, gloves for ease of life, with fur or something you killed with your own hands as proof of ability. Should Jaskier give him back a hairpin, they might as well scream about an engagement for all to hear!

He breathed in and out, slowly, before he looked up at Geralt. At least witcher had the decency to look like he should be blushing, even if he stayed pale when looking away. Jaskier wasn’t sure he  _ could _ blush and suddenly felt very much jealous of the possibility, with how hot his face felt.

“You’ve been freezing.” Geralt explained after a moment, putting the mortar way, but still not looking at him. “I wanted to thank you for the winter. Witchers don’t often find themselves with a safe home for so long… not for free.”

Jaskier flinched, his own maelstrom of emotion suddenly forgotten.

“What  _ do you _ do then?” he asked slowly. The way those broad shoulders tensed was not promising in the least and only sent his heart a-flutter. “Geralt?” he stood up, letting the coat slide to the bed, and came closer to stand by the witcher's side.

“Kaer Morhen.” Geralt bit out finally, fingers clutching at the desk hard enough Jaskier was sure there would be imprints of his nails and not caring a single bit. He put a hand at Geralt’s back, feeling the faint tremors under his fingers and not saying a word as he slowly rubbed them away, like smoothing out a piece of silk. “Wolf witchers- not many of us now. Go back there for winters, it’s – it  _ was _ safer.”

Jaskier hummed mindlessly, wondering how many times will his heart bleed for Geralt before it scars thick enough to prevent another cut - if it ever will at all.

“Not like I can get back now.” Geralt snorted, suddenly shaking Jaskier off and walking away and then out of the room.

Jaskier let him, trying not to berate himself too much for his sheer stupidity. People barely can bother to pick between a werewolf and a stray dog… or to recognize a witcher – there is little chance they would see a difference between many of them, even if it should be so damn obvious with Great’s looks.

But of course, there is no difference for an angry mob if they chase away the Butcher of Blaviken or any other witcher. One danger chased away, so time to drink up in celebration and stroke their fragile egos.

Geralt doesn’t come back until morning, working by the desk again when Jaskier wakes up. They don’t talk, but he does nod at the oatmeal when Jaskier brings it from the kitchens and puts it on by his elbow, even if he doesn’t touch it. So Jaskier swallows his petty indignity and puts on the coat and the muff, warmed when Geralt almost smiles even more so than from the wool and furs.

His students waste all of one minute before they barrage him with questions. Who gave it and why does it look so weird, what’s this fur and where did it come from, was it bought, who’s the lady, or is it a lord, is there a date or is it a secret student liaison, or maybe that weird witcher in his rooms-!

He says, much harsher than they probably deserve, that his very dear friend gifted him the clothes because of the cold and all but drowns them in old readings about the classic philosophy of writing, so they have something better to waste their time on. They whine and grumble and try to strike up a conversation a few times before giving up completely.

Jaskier tries not to wonder if they would’ve bought this excuse as quickly if it wasn’t a witcher that is whispered about sleeping in his room, if it wasn’t such an unbelievable thought for a witcher to love another that obviously  _ it cannot be _ in their stupid, empty little heads-!

The anger twists around his chest and stays for the rest of the day. He snaps at all his students, only getting more and more angry with every lecture that brings new rounds of questions. He assigned so many readings he’s sure the library will be packed for a week and cannot bring himself to care. He spends his early meal shredding a loaf of bread into pieces and drowning it in soup, but not even touching a spoon.

He goes to  _ Melody _ , but drinking his sorrows away only leaves more room for the anger and when he snaps at Sarah, he decides he’d rather deal with sour mood than hangover  _ and _ next day apologies.

He wanders the main street, gagging only partially due to all the ale when he sees a few candies trampled into the ground by the market. It’s more of an open square with a watchtower, stocks and a line of shops, but it serves as a market first and city centre second and festival grounds when time comes. Snow still hadn’t stayed for longer than a few hours whenever it fell, despite the grounds being whiter and whiter each frigid morning, so there are still a few sellers with open tables or blankets too.

Jaskier almost stumbles over his feet when he sees lines of hair accessories, one in particular taking his breath away for a moment. There is a non-descriptive blade made of metal with carved lily of the valley crossing it, all attached to a tiny metal clasp that would keep on either hair or clothes. It’s almost mocking, how much it fits, and after the lectures, Jaskier suddenly feels petty.

Because how dare Geralt do this to him, time and time again? Does he think him as primitive as other people, unable to ever conceive a notion of witcher willing to try his hand at romance that he feels safe in doing whatever he pleases? Does he not care about anyone noticing - about Jaskier noticing?

Witchers don’t feel a thing, so who cares that those around them might?!

“This one.” He more so jabs than points at the accessory and almost breaks a finger when the coin purse doesn’t quite want to get out of his pocket, but he’s adamant about buying the damn thing even if he has to rip his whole hand off.

As he stalks back to the academy, the cold sobers him up just enough to allow for shame, which then burns through everything else till he feels hollowed out and rubbed raw. The hairpin long hidden in his pockets seems to burn his skin through fabrics, heavy as a boulder.

It’s unfair and he knows it, to his students who were just curious children and to Geralt who only wanted to be nice. It’s the ale and the Oxenfurt bringing up unwanted memories and feelings. He knows all of this, but the rage still simmers inside him, because he never wanted to be back here, never wanted to play nice with Jacobs again or to deal with pestering teens or watch his every move least he provokes sordid rumours  _ all over again _ , as if he didn’t tolerate wasting away years of his life just for a chance to finally run away, but somehow still ended up back at the beginning.

He goes straight to his room, dinner be damned, and promptly bends over in a coughing fit as soon as he steps inside. He barely has a mind to close the door behind, twisting the key out of habit as he tries to take a breath in a foggy room.

They set a routine with the baths, to give each other some illusion of privacy after sharing more than should be considered comfortable on the road. Geralt takes his first as Jaskier goes to get their dinner, the smell of food overpowering the heady mist as it slowly filters out the window, then Geralt takes the dishes back as Jaskier has a wash too.

He would be pissed at the room being more misty than a bathhouse if Geralt didn’t look so blissed out where he was submerged as much as he was able, the water covered in bubbles so much it would look like a frosting if not for the smell of soaps. For a witcher so bent on being practical, baths are the one thing he indulges in when they have a chance and Jaskier would be hard-pressed to make him even the tiniest bit self-conscious about this. Not when he’s almost sure now that he feels cold much worse than humans and hot baths must be a blessing.

So he just sighs through his sleeve and shrugs the coat off before fur makes him drowns in his own sweat.

“Should I keep watch so you don’t drown in there?” he tries for a joke, but his tone comes out more biting than he intended.

He’s not sure if Geralt notices, golden eyes trailing his walk across the room, but not a muscle moving beside that. So Jaskier just tilts a window, wondering not for the first time what is actually up with Geralt’s senses if he balks at too much salt, but readily drowns himself in bubbles with no care for the suffocating smell.

“Won’t drown.” Geralt moves, stretching his limbs where they’re propped on the edges of the tub and Jaskier tried very much not to stare, because that would be rude and because they are friends and nothing else, damn it, which he’s not gonna mess up for a short ogle.

No matter how much he longs to look over the scars and pester Geralt for stories about where they came from. For that he needs a good mood and that strikes about every full moon.

“What, can you breath water too?” he asks, landing the haughty tone a bit better if Geralt’s small smile is anything to go by.

“Not without potions.” He says, and Jaskier suddenly has half a mind to sneak that pin onto Geralt somewhere, anywhere, just to be petty because of course the witcher doesn’t have to bother with something as menial as  _ breathing air _ , yet manages to court him without knowing time after time!

Sometimes he wonders how many bad rumours were made by people simply jealous of witchers’ various abilities. He thinks it might just be  _ all of them _ .

He rolls up his sleeves and comes to crouch by Geralt, reaching for a strand of white hair damp from the steam filling the room.

“Want help with that then?” he asks, not really thinking about it, which rarely bears good things. Geralt cranes his head back to give him a long look before he shrugs.

“If you want to.”

Jaskier smiles, knowing him well enough by now to recognize the  _ then please do _ that’s left unsaid. So he goes for some hair oils and gets to work, because Geralt’s hair is a marvel and the way this brute of a witcher neglects them is a true travesty upon the very concept of beauty.

He kneels when the crouch becomes too much for his legs, the pin in his pocket jabbing him in the thigh. He pauses, fingers rubbing oil into Geralt’s scalp mindlessly. He wonders how easy it would be, wonders if Geralt would finally realize what he’s been doing if he had to deal with it, if he would make an effort to not repeat this or tell Jaskier to deal with it, if he wouldn’t just deem him too much trouble and leave; but then he decides to leave it be.

Geralt doesn’t deserve his pettiness… and he’s no longer a petulant child that’s chained to this academy by his parents. If he wants to stop feeling like a silly student again then maybe acting like a damn adult will be a good start.


	6. In which Jaskier plays with flowers.

For all the cold and winds and misery, the winter passed with little snow and even then its whites have quickly spilled into the greenery of spring, Pontar sloshing wide and flooding the fields to cheer on every farmer. Ironically it’s the muddy roads that force them into camp the same day they leave Oxenfurt – poor Roach barely got pulled from mud puddle by Geralt’s sheer willpower, it seemed, and is miserable as her legs dry in the sun so the dirt can be scrubbed away without making even more of a mess.  
Jaskier always had a soft spot for her, if only for the company and solace she was for Geralt and maybe because caring for horses was one of the few pleasant memories from his childhood. So he scavenges the whole clearing to the last flower and then lures Roach to lay down, her head heavy on his lap, and to let him braid flowers into her mane as he feeds her one here and there.  
Geralt is less than impressed when he comes with some birds to roast, but Jaskier knows when to ignore his sour mood. They’re both still lax from the luxuries of Oxenfurt and the feast sending the students off to their homes, so it’s mostly just posturing. Maybe habit. Or maybe he just likes all the frowning and glowering, Jaskier can never be too sure with him.  
Either way, he does know when it’s nothing to take to heart. It took a few tries and a few weeks, till he learned and stopped being wary around Geralt. The way he relaxed when he started returning his little snarky comments spoke volumes about how much of his guarded attitude was real and how much was a front.  
Not that Jaskier ever thought much about witchers, but he never expected one to be so- well, he’s not sure how to put it other than starved.  
Quite literally for food, because when Jaskier met him he could count every one of his ribs and follow veins pushed between hard muscles and cold skin. Even in Oxenfurt Geralt seems to never get too much fat over his muscles, though at least that has a benign explanation - besides the last feast the food was plentiful, but also highly processed. Spiced breads and smoked meats and preserves, most of which the witcher's tongue wouldn’t tolerate so they had to improvise with willing cooks and servants. Jaskier still worries quite a bit, but for now he had accepted that there was something more at play, if not witcher’s biology then a need for a specific diet and on the road it wasn’t really an option to ask about. Maybe when he clears Geralt’s name some more or gets his own known enough to provide them with steady income, but now it would just be rubbing salt in a wound.  
He craves acknowledgement, too, if not an outright attention. Even if Geralt is always a right bastard whenever Jaskier as much as breathes that the gloomy witcher might like it when his incessant talking fills the silence or that he has someone to come back to after a job is done. Jaskier still usually trailed after him for the hunts, despite the warnings and occasional fear and pain. But he did stay for the nights or to play when Geralt searched the trail, when he spent nights getting weird plants or went back to cut out pieces of slain monster for later use. It was still a difference of having someone to come back to, instead of an empty room, and Jaskier took vicious glee in the way Geralt’s eyes would look around a room before finding him and how he relaxed just a little bit at his sight.  
And then, quite surprisingly, it’s the luxuries that he yearns for badly enough to acknowledge it, because no matter how much he scoffs at Jaskier’s bright clothes or the unnecessary little things like fresh apples here or bottle of better wine there, he still never stops him or even refuses to indulge. Baths are a category all on its own, but beside them there is a trick to this. And it is that Jaskier needs to be somehow involved, even if by the flimsiest excuse. Geralt will get rooms if Jaskier complains about back pain, find a bathhouse when he whines about his nails almost snapping a lute string, threaten the innkeeper should he try and treat Jaskier as whore and not a bard… he is still seldom takes things for himself, but getting them by proxy of providing them to Jaskier seems to let him avoid feeling whatever it is that stops him from anything not even selfish, but simply self-indulgent.  
So Jaskier just smiles and turns to making as intricate of a flower crown as he can. Then he gets up and goes to crown his stupid, emotionally repressed witcher.  
He’s worried, for a moment, because he’s never been good with flowers and spring might be early, but still only beginning. There is language to it, little meanings that make simple bouquets into a confession or war declaration. He knows a few – the roses love, the lilies purify, the kind of things that work in songs and is easy to follow for common folk. Elaborate designs, ones he sees in courts or at balls, those he cannot dream to replicate now. He wishes he checked it in Oxenfurt library, but decided there is always another winter.  
He still thinks the wreath is nice enough – some love and friendship, maybe some naivety or patience, because he always mixed those too up. It would fit quite well, since Geralt can be so taxing in his bad moments, honestly, but nothing offensive…  
He shouldn’t’ve worried, of course. Geralt picks it up, plucks two types of flowers away and then feeds the thing to Roach.  
He shouldn’t feel disappointed either. He still does.


	7. In which Jaskier is disgusted by nobility.

They part suddenly, Geralt muttering something about  _ other witchers _ and all but ordering Jaskier to take Roach back to the village they passed in the morning and to stay there for a week. He even gives him money for it, which is what makes Jaskier keep all the questions burning at his tongue at bay, because this clearly meant it was serious. Geralt is hard pressed to waste money, an understandable habit for witcher with armour to care for and a damn  _ silver sword _ to keep sharp enough to cut through monsters.

Jaskier couldn’t even enjoy finally getting to ride Roach, worried as he was. Neither did she seem happy to leave Geralt alone _. _

The week came and went, Jaskier singing in a small inn and trying to not outstay his welcome by keeping his songs as clean and inoffensive as possible and even offering help with counting money for the royal taxes, so the owner would make sure Roach was safe and happy.

After the second week, he sang less and spent evenings helping clean the inn and doing odd jobs in the kitchen when he wasn’t chatting people up, trying to get at any and all rumours that might tell him what was happening. He wasn’t worried by that point – Geralt clearly was busy, was all. True, it was a touch weird for him to leave Roach in Jaskier’s care, but Geralt was a witcher, so he was perfectly able to take care of himself.

Jaskier wasn’t gonna bother him by going back when he was so clearly ordered to stay away. He does sit by Roach in the evenings, brushing her mane and braiding in a few flowers every time, as if hoping to lure Geralt with the sheer indignity at such unnecessary waste of time and plants.

Then  _ a month _ passed still, which is when he leaves as much money as he could possibly part with to pay for Roach’s stay and goes for a royal ball set up by one of the Redanian lords. He planned it in advance and Geralt knew about it, so it feels fair. He did everything asked of him, but he still had his own responsibilities. He can't tie his life so completely to the witcher; the way he’s falling apart at the seams right now seems to prove this point painfully well. He cannot be defined by Geralt any more than he could live with the way his title defined him. It would drown him out and suffocate, till he had to run if he wished to be ever able to survive on his own and he never wants to run from Geralt.

They’re friends, but they’re not joined at the hip, right? Geralt is a witcher, he survived decades if not centuries all on his skilled and highly dangerous lonesome, so he can clearly take care of himself. It is Jaskier who needs to watch every tune he plays when staying too long in one place, keep up with latest fashions and rumours, to remember any and all historical conflicts and customs of any place he might end up in if he wants to be allowed to stay without causing a scandal (flirting and sleeping around is different, this is trouble he chooses on his own – being run out for smiling at mayor’s daughter is not the same as being put in stocks for wearing clothes in the colour not matching the season at the court). Even then it’s all too easy to outstay his welcome, if the place can’t afford a bard on the daily and they don’t have a place for opportune workers.

Jaskier needs Geralt much more than Geralt needs him. That’s the sad and painful truth and Jaskier just hopes it didn’t become too much for witcher, that he didn’t meet up with his kin only to realize how much of a better company they are, to finally notice how much of a burden it was to drag a human bard along a witcher’s path.

So he leaves, telling himself he wasn’t still half-dead from worry and never believing his own words for a second.

The days after that were tedious, dull as they stretched out without meaning and bland as they blurred together.

So very tedious at their very core that he might as well be trying to move an ocean with a sieve. He wonders how could he have ever dreamt of such life, how could he ever imagine it as thrilling adventure. The never-ending cycle of waking up only to walk and sing and fall asleep till he can wake again seems so repetitive, going through the motions and bending to will of the crowd no matter what he wants to do (no matter his vow to Geralt), because at some point having full belly becomes more important than stifled pride or shame.

Just as the autumn hits with waves of golden leaves, he hears about a witcher saving Temeria’s princess. There are whispers about White Wolf and he almost sobs in the middle of a street, even as they talk about his grievous injuries.

_ He lives _ echoes in his head, in every beat of his heart and in every hurried step he makes. He lives, he survived and now is even praised for his heroic deed! Jaskier isn't sure if there is anything that could make this any better.

He is still just a little furious about lack of contact, of course he is, but he tries not to let it get to him. The rumours are horrific and somehow he’s sure it was even  _ worse _ than what they quietly whisper about in the corners, about the princess keeping her claws or a sorceress not being happy for unwanted intervention.

Jaskier lets it fuel him into crossing Redania as fast as humanly possible, doing all he can to get a pass into Temerian court.

He’s blessed by a _peculiar_ strike of luck, it would seem, meeting a lord who remembers him from his childhood. Lord Arthur looks him over, puffs up in his clothes just barely imitating latest trends and after reminiscing for a while decides he’s feeling _indulgent_ _enough_ to take him along, as his daughter’s company for the road and then as chaperone for the celebratory feast set by King Foltest.

Jaskier grinds his teeth till his gums bleed and smiles all the well-practiced smiles as he’s interrogated about his family, clothed in cheap fabrics and made to amuse the lord and his entourage with  _ silly little tales _ of living on the road, all the while he’s insulted with such lack of subtlety he’s missing Geralt and his wit all the more fiercely.

At least he can actually veil those insults in something nicer.

It’s all worth it when he does get to the feast and sees Geralt, pale and stiff in his chair with lines of bandages visible under a thin shirt, but alive. Jaskier doesn’t even care for the woman by his side, probably the sorceress from the rumours if her ethereal looks are anything to go by. He’s so relieved his friend survived that he just stands there, watching Geralt with barely a blink – how he moves and breathes and talks and simply exists, alive if not exactly well. The girl he’s supposed to chaperone all but drags him to a table by the side when guests behind them start to complain about being blocked. He goes willingly, but with great regret, moving his head any way he can to keep his eyes on the witcher.

He  _ relieved _ and  _ so glad _ , he got what he wanted and Geralt’s alive so he should be happy, except-

Except there is no way for him to go to Geralt, to exchange even a single word, to do more than watch from a distance, because witcher’s the honoured guest at king’s table and he’s a mere disgraced heir picked by a merciful lord and set by the side of his daughter to entertain. He’s put there to shadow her every step and dance with her so she can make her debut, but with no chance of any lustful pretender daring to touch her, while Geralt is sat primly to be the main attraction of the feast.

Jaskier never hated his positions as much as he did now – never in his life imagined missing his title and what it entails, the simple right to stand up and walk among the royals, but here he is, grounded to a table and kept in place by the invisible chains of the customs and manners he so abhors, but cannot escape now lest he brings much more trouble than it's worth.

Because this stings the most, somehow, that he cannot do anything without destroying all of the good will of the people and Geralt’s newly budding reputation. It stings, the way witcher’s accepted for one good deed done to the right people while nobody cared as he did it to countless others, day after day for little reward. That for all his songs Jaskier could never help Geralt as much as fighting the Striga did, because he’s not vain enough to think a few months of singing had any bearing on the king's actions or people’s reception.

He’s almost glad when the young lady he’s supposed to entertain pulls him for a dance, both of them moving awkwardly and trying not to step on each other's feet. He’s been taught of course, but no amount of lessons or talent helps when he’s still craning his head this way and that, trying to at least look his fill if he cannot hope for anything else.

Then the lady, Hanna or something similar, he thinks, suddenly leans in, pushing an apple into Jaskier’s hand. Then she whispers the explanation into his ear and he’s glad for the loud music, because he gags at the very thought of  _ any human _ eating an apple he’d sweat into through the night. He hopes his horror it taken as fear of being caught in staring at Geralt – as if he did so for something as cheap and silly as  _ lusting for a hero _ , what did that girl read before sleep and why did he have to be the one suffering her poor imagination – and then allows the girl to call for her maid. Hanna lies about being tired and Jaskier just barely tolerates all the public pleasantries when she bids good night to her father.

After that, he quickly runs for the champagne to wash the bile from his mouth. If he was ever glad for leaving the courts and royal life-!

He thinks of Geralt stumbling into this courting little disaster and gags again. He looks at the apple warily and decides it’s not worth wasting it just because some people have truly insane traditions. And possible brain damage from all the sweaty apples they-

He forces the thought out of his head as he sneaks out the main hall. He chats with a few servants, helping here and there, wasting time in doing the worst little jobs. An hour later, he’s seated comfortably in the stables, talking a mile a minute and letting Roach munch on a few of the apples deemed too ugly to be served to the royalty he snuck out of the basket in the kitchen.

It’s safer to talk to her than to throw it all at Geralt and risk making him leave again.

After all, for all the weeks they spend apart, Jaskier could’ve tried to find him, even contact him. He was supposed to stay away for a week, but after that he could’ve looked for Geralt instead of sitting idly by and waiting for the witcher.

The truth was simple and pathetic – he feared that he would find him only to be sent away again.

It’s not a sane fear, they spend enough time together for him to be sure witcher appreciates his company at least a little, but with the way he’s now heralded as saviour… maybe Jaskier is just a tiny bit jealous of the way King’s favour can help Geralt in the ways his songs never could.

He never thought he’d miss his title and yet here he is, crying about it to a horse and playing with a last stupid little apple, the one he got from the girl he probably bored for the whole evening.

He must’ve dozed off, at some point, relaxing against Roache’s side and calmed by her steady breath and faint smell of flowers still in her mane which he, admittedly, could’ve just imagined, but which comforted him either way. When he wakes up, Geralt is standing in front of him with a small, pleased smile, the moon shining through the window and making his hair almost glow. Jaskier manages to swallow his pleas to allow him to travel with him again, instead getting to his feet.

He might be pathetic in the safety of his own mind or even in front of Roach, but not Geralt. He cannot show him this childish crisis, not when he needs to make sure he can join him again.

“I hope she was well when you got to her… couldn’t stay longer, had an invitation to Redanian court and couldn’t very well ignore it.” He fills the silence again and breaks into a smile himself when Geralt visibly relaxes. “Paid as much as I could.”

“Mhmm.” Geralt pets her flank and rolls his eyes a little when Roach noses at his hands almost immediately.

Jaskier laughs, his face burning a little as some of the coils squeezing his chest loosen up.

“Couldn’t very well throw out perfectly good apples when I’ve got such a fine lady awaiting.” He says, moving his hands in a flourish and revels in Geralt's short huff of laughter.

All's well that goes back to normal, so Jaskier doesn’t try his luck.

He does pester Geralt a little, after they’ve left the castle and set up the camp for a night. He asks about silly things like weather and new piece of armour he sees and the handy little dagger tied to Roach’s saddle, then for the story about the Striga and then why he disappeared so suddenly.

He’s glad to hear Geralt meet some of the other wolf witchers, reading between the lines that this was the best outcome he could hope for. It takes ages to finally drag out the confirmation that Geralt is welcomed in Kaer Morhen for the next winter, but Jaskier sobers up from his growing sleepiness in a snap.

He takes out that stupid little apple to core it and bakes it by the fire, stuffed with some sugar and a piece of cinnamon he snuck out of the Arthur’s supplies during travel. He makes a show of allowing Geralt to share it with him in a celebration and for the first time in months, food doesn’t taste like ash in his mouth.

He tries to ignore the vicious little voice, reminding him that Geralt sent him off as soon as he noticed those witchers, the closest thing he has to a family.

He tries to rationalize it’s only fair, that with how long Witcher’s live he must still be little more than a stranger walking the same road for a moment. Why should he expect to be included into a witcher’s family, a silly little human who probably couldn’t even keep up with drinks served with the dinner, let alone bring anything interesting to talk about? Why should Great bring him without knowing what witchers he’ll stumble upon, a dead weight and liability?

He refuses water as he lays down to sleep, trying to keep the last tastes of melted sugar on his tongue and use it to chase away any sour thoughts.

It doesn’t really work.


	8. In which Jaskier dives deep into denial.

Jaskier still feels a little bit high on his joy of joining Geralt again, so much so that when he noticed witcher still walking slowly due to wounds from the Striga he barely bites his tongue before mentioning how close Kerack is. It’s an impossible idea, he knows well enough what opinion Geralt holds of royalty, why would he ever reveal his status as a disgraced viscount?

A fantasy of his parents finally biting the dust from pure shock of a witcher befouling their ancestral manor is tempting, but not worth the risk of losing Geralt. Not so soon after he found him again.

So he subtly sends them south and then along the Ina river. Autumn paints everything in gold and red of falling leaves, but it’s warm enough still to make trek along the Mahakam mountains easy enough for the witcher. They keep to Temerian soil and King Foltest’s blessing fresh in people’s memories, but far enough from big cities that they avoid anything worse than a stray drowner or a wild wolf mistaken for werewolves. Small villages are too busy with incoming harvest to pester them too much as well.

Then they do reach Maribor and Jaskier finds himself glued to a shop in the main square, regretting he fled from lord Arthur before securing his full payment. He got enough in advance to not go hungry for a little while more, but-

“Should I leave you alone?” Geralt does not lilt his voice, but the sentiment is the same and Jaskier feels his face burn.

“Oh, come off it.” He slaps his arm weakly and sneaks another glance at the bright coats and accessories displayed in the shop. “I bet you’ve no idea what a broadcloth even is, let alone  _ this broadcloth _ , you uncivilised brute.” He gives a glare to Geralt’s mis-matched clothes under a mix of new and patched armour. He’s lucky to wear all black, else he would look worse than Jaskier did in that awful rainbow of clothes he was forced to wear as a child, when his parents were a little too close to losing their title due to going bankrupt to afford anything besides mending whatever they scavenged from distant relatives.

Geralt rolls his eyes, but doesn’t complain as Jaskier goes into a tangent about the sheep grazing on the slopes of Carbon mountain, the secret process of making the broadcloth or the equally unknown methods to keep colours as vibrant as summer flowers, all reflected in the price and short-time availability – only in Maribor and within Carbon mountain itself.

Merciful, he stops himself before he goes into the detail of the role it plays in courtship, cursing Geralt silently for noticing an announcement of Solstice Spindle at all. He does change his mind as he sees the carts with the spools of ribbons probably long enough to circle the entire city.

A night of wine, dancing and opportune sex is exactly what he needs to make himself normal again. He needs to get over his little bout of clinginess – almost inviting Geralt to Kerack, honestly, has he lost his mind?

He needs to get his bearings and get over this little separation anxiety he got, lest he scares Geralt away with his over-dependency and wouldn’t that be the most bitter irony?

Of course, not a day later it turns out, he needn’t have worried about keeping quiet, for the world seems to take vicious entertainment in making Jaskier’s life miserable.

At least that is the only way he can explain how in the world did Geralt come up to his room suddenly with a bundle of widecloth coat that must’ve cost a small fortune or a very big favour to obtain. He stares at it, wondering silently if this is the price of accompanying a witcher – a constant and incurable bouts of him stumbling upon rituals he’s not aware of, making Jaskier’s heart jump to his throat.

He’s not worried it means anything, Geralt was all fine after their months-long parting and that’s exactly the reason he wanted to use the evening celebrations, to let loose and have fun and finally calm down-

“Is it the colour?” Geralt speaks up finally, voice tight and brows furrowed, and it’s only then when Jaskier notices the colour at all.

Not just a bright, alluring blue, but matching the shade of ribbons used in the dance, so intended as a courting gift. Because  _ of course it is _ .

“N-no-“ Jaskier choked on his own words and took a steadying breath. “If you have wanted to keep me company to the Spindle you could’ve just asked.” He teases gently, but Geralt only looks at him weird.

“I don’t.” He corrects him and puts the bundle a bit closer to him, slowly. “It’s- I wanted to thank you. Marring the celebrations wouldn’t really do that, would it?” he smiles, a crooked, bitter thing and Jaskier has to grab the table to stop himself from hugging him.

“…but it must’ve cost a fortune. You shouldn’t have bothered.” slips out before he can stop himself, Geralt’s frown deepening. “Just- you didn’t have to-.” He trails off, not sure what to do.

Geralt thanking him wasn’t exactly new, but it was rare. The witcher was unwilling to be in anyone’s debt if he could help it, but seemingly unused to the alternative and people doing things for him without an ulterior motive. It pains a bleak picture and Jaskier feels his stomach lurch as it always does.

“You didn’t have to keep Roach safe till the end of a summer either.” Geralt shrugs, shifting on his feet. “Could’ve done without the apple feeding, but- you kept her safe much longer than you needed to.”

Jaskier laughs a little, then, as any illusions he could’ve had shatters before even forming, because of course it’s about the horse, what else? How could Jaskier alone be worth such a gift? What did he do that could be worth so much?

He wished he didn’t leave the old coat in Malvo, safe under Sarah’s care. He knows it’s unreasonable, it was suited for winter in particular and would be a superfluous load in travels, but maybe then Geralt wouldn’t have don’t-  _ this _ .

He takes another breath and fakes a bright smile, reaching to hug the cloth to his chest.

“Then I thank you immensely, dear witcher. Couldn’t have left the poor mare to the mercy of the world, of course, not sure how you could ever suspect me of such foul behaviour!” he shakes his head ruefully. “…but I won’t look a gifted horse in its mouth.” He grins, a little more honest at Geralt’s huff of amusement.

He invites him into the room and finishes changing. Geralt opts for a bath and a good night’s rest, Jaskier promising to come back before breakfast.

He has to ignore a sudden wish to stay, to offer to wash witcher’s hair and change the last wrappings that are still around his neck, which sounds much more alluring than any wine or company.

It’s not healthy though, it would just be more of his co-dependency that Geralt might decide to stop tolerating one day, so he bites his tongue and walks out, the coat heavy on his back.

Solstice Spindle is as merry and bright and loud as he remembers from his one visit as a young boy. This time he drinks his fill and makes an offering of a flower wreath. He performs the brisk dances braiding the ribbons around the poles, vibrant fabrics making the pretties patterns as he’s moving between men and women and kissing here and there as they circle each other, mixing the ribbons.

Few catch his eyes for longer, a woman with an intricate weave in her greying hair and a laugh as jingly as glass pebbles, a man with the greenest eyes and a perfume that tickles his nose whenever they pass each other, another one with arms covered in burns from working the anvil and muscles to match.

He keeps to languid kisses here and there, sharing a cup of wine, but when he smells that sweet perfume again, he volunteers to help tie the ribbons as the round is finished, to buy himself time.

Then he sits by and grabs the little strips of loose fabric attached to the back of his coat, and busies himself with braiding them, so he can pull them through the loops tied to the fabric at his waist.

It’s a clear sign that he might join the celebration, but does not wish to look for any bedroom fun. He’s not sure why he’s not in a mood – the wine warmed him up pleasantly while the evening wind kept him cool despite the demanding dances. It’s the best warm-up to get, but he finds himself content to look and join another dance a while later, a kiss thrown here and there, but nothing more.

He tells himself it’s just exhaustion, the return to walking through woods and roads after he spent so long moving between safe towns and villages.

He’s not sure he believes himself.


	9. In which Jaskier is armed.

Nitan wasn’t a city, exactly, but more so the grounds just around the prestigious Leanbrough castle’s walls. It meant people were irritatingly full of themselves, acting part of the royalty despite never leaving their shadow. It also made them happy to open their purses in case of trouble, because lady Corella was happy to defend her own – as long as her own didn’t step a foot outside the city walls.

Jaskier could understand her, to a point. After lord Arlean had died it was only Corella’s known pregnancy that allowed her to keep the title and land. Birth of a son gave them safety, but only as long as the boy lived long enough to get the title for himself and there was still a good decade of uncertainty and more or less subtle assassination attempts left.

So while people were tedious, Nitan was also a perfect place for a Witcher. Geralt’s fame in Temeria was all nice and helpful, but it didn’t exactly spread everywhere, let alone beside the borders.

After all, you never know when your neighbour’s hero becomes your nightmare.

Jaskier feels shamelessly proud when it doesn’t even take them a full stroll through the market before Geralt has been handed five separate jobs. They’re small things – get rid of a monster in the sewer or check out what’s munching on the crops, but they’re still outside the castle walls and its notice board.

So proud, in fact, that he decided to spend the last of his money from lord Arthur on equally shamelessly spoiling Geralt. He knows his weaknesses, so he left him to his weird herb and flower and weapon  _ whatevers _ , but he also knows the witcher is secretly fond of pastries, especially if they have some fruit and sugar.

In fact, that baked apple bought him two days of riding on Roach, so he wanders by the food stalls and stops as soon as he smells cinnamon and nutmeg. A bored teenage boy was standing behind a stall, two young girls playing around with strings by his side.

Jaskier smiled brightly and chatted the girls up – Halina and Elena – praising they’re finger string skills and letting them teach him the cat’s cradle and broom, listening intently as they asked about his lute, his clothes and the courts he’s been to. He even made up a song about crop spirit blessing the orchards, the girls giggling at a line about apple-auburn hair just like their own and a few heads turning to look at the spectacle and easily tempted into spending a coin or two.

The little bit of entertainment cost him only a bit of time and in exchange the boy, Sam, picked him half a dozen small pastries with apple and rhubarb by hand (which meant getting the freshest ones) and sold them for a price of four. Jaskier made sure to thank him properly and still paid double what he was asked before sneaking back into the crowd.

He took out a handkerchief to keep the pastries in and went to look for Geralt, still glancing around the stalls.

That’s when he noticed a display of wide leather belts and embellished sheaths of every size. He made a face, hoping to avoid it and of course that’s when he saw Geralt already by the seller’s side. He ignored the way his hearth squeezed painfully in his chest when he saw it. Great, just what he needed, a public display of accidental courtship, as if the ones he had to suffer in secret weren’t bad enough!

Then he immediately scoffed at his own ego, because why did he expect Geralt to be looking for anything to buy for him? For all he knows Geralt bought something for himself! Really, he needs to get over this. The winter’s coming and they’ll part for the season, since the witcher is once again welcome in his home. He cannot get into bouts of melancholic clinginess every spring!

Jaskier forced a carefree smile and marched up to Geralt with a cheery “There you went!”

He leaned on his arm, ignoring the way he had to straighten up to his tiptoes despite his heeled boots and peeked at Geralt’s hands.

There was a bundle covered in cloth.

“Don’t tell me you decided to replace that poor excuse of a harness you still think is good enough to wear?” he started, hoping to distract him as he peeked at whatever he bought, hoping to guess what it was from the shape.

Too small for a belt, so at least that’s good-

“It still works.” Geralt glared at him briefly and then pushed the bundle into his hands. “It’s for you.” He grunted, each word sounding as if dragged by force.

At first Jaskier just blinked, before slowly opening the bundle. The dagger was small and simple, with a handle wrapped in leather weave and an initial burn into the rear bolster. The blade’s spine was dark against a wave pattern on the blade, which sank into his nail as soon as he pressed it against the edge.

“-and what do you suppose I do with it?” he choked out, wondering briefly if that’s Geralt’s subtle way of telling him to leave him alone, arming him up so he has no need for protection.

Then he remembered it’s  _ Geralt _ and took a calming breath. Subtle, right.

“If you insist on dragging yourself after me you might as well not be completely helpless.” Geralt shrugged, but there was a weird look to his eyes when Jaskier caught them, something soft and happy that made the yellow shine like molten gold.

Jaskier ignored the way his heart jumped to his throat and cleared it loudly, turning the dagger over in his hands.

“And where am I supposed to keep it, hmm?” he asked weakly and tried to not sigh exasperatedly when Geralt nodded at the stall they were standing by, just like he tried not to notice the smirks of the seller and his wife.

“Pick one.” Geralt threw the offer just like he did the small pouch of coins and fled like the oblivious idiots that he was.

Jaskier sighed, looking the blade over again. He grabbed it, feeling a sudden surge of affection at the way it sat comfortably in his hand, the lengths just so and the weight impeccably balanced. Couldn’t Geralt actually screw it up just once instead of messing with his hopes?!

He frowned, clutching the handle, because- what hopes? For what, being courted by the witcher who barely tolerated his presence? Right, as if that would ever happen!

“You buyin’ or not?” the seller brought him back to reality.

“Give me a moment!” Jaskier snapped at him and looked over his wares. The irritation was still bubbling inside him, weird and completely unwanted, so he picked the flashiest brightly-dyed sheath he could find. It cost less than he expected, so he picked up a clean, wide belt with a secondary strap at the thigh.

He pointedly ignored the questions about buying embroidery kit for just a bit more gold, but then also tried not to notice when the seller’s wife sneaks it into his bag with a knowing wink.

Curse Geralt and his bloody lack of knowledge about courtship!

He caught up to witcher at the edge of the market, feeling petty satisfaction when the bright sheath made him frown.

“Isn’t it pretty?” he gushed, smiling sweetly, before all but throwing the blade at Geralt. He tried not to feel jealous when he caught it without any effort, not even looking. “Here, hold it when I put it on.” He took out the belt and put it in place, trying to ignore the memories of the meal-corset his parents insisted on when his growth spurt was late, so he wouldn’t  _ let himself go too much _ .

He took his time fiddling with the sheath, admiring the bright pattern on the leather and the shine of the metal embellishment.

“Right!” he reached to the bag for the pastries and turned around to show them to Geralt so he could choose one. He frowned at the sight of Witcher’s empty hands, then shifted on his feet, hips pushing to the left. The sheath moved heavily against his clothes, the dagger’s handle shining in the last rays of sunshine.

When did he even-?

Jaskier shook his head, mumbling something about  _ sneaky witchers who should know to keep their hand to themselves, thank you very much, especially when said hands were probably still filthy with who knows what _ and getting more ridiculous the more sure he was of Geralt’s smile hidden behind a pastry.

He reminded himself it’s all meaningless and his heart should get used to such things already. It’s just a friendly gift, nothing more, and the longer he freaks out the more obvious it will become that he never truly had friends close enough to gift him things and wouldn’t that just be the pathetic icing on the cake of his miserable fantasies?

So the next day he excused himself with a performance a few towns over and left Geralt in Nitan to stuff his purse full, telling himself it’s for the best.

Somehow his hearth didn’t want to listen.


	10. In which Jaskier stabs an ass.

Jaskier made himself busy with performances, wine and sex until he reached the pass between Kestrel and Mahakam mountains and had to decide where to go. He wondered what would be best, as he hid from the high sun under a tree.

He was bored of Temeria and should probably be away for a bit longer before he overstayed his welcome. Geralt’s name was also in pretty good graces there, after the Striga business.

Kaedwen and Redania were both a poor choice for the ending of autumn, one chilled by mountain winds and the other by the sea.

Aedirn was warm thanks to the overflowing desert heat, but had the problem of sitting right above Lyria, which was where Rivia was. Granted, Jaskier had no idea if Geralt’s home was there – there was actually more logic in assuming he didn’t advertise the secret keep of Wolf Witchers with his own name, but with the way Jaskier’s life kept unfolding, he wasn’t keen on his luck.

So he closed his eyes and spun around till he lost his balance, the way his head landed pointing the way.

“Kaedwen it is.” He sighed as he sat up.

He also had to consider where he would spend the winter. Oxenfurt was always his possible if unwanted choice, if he couldn’t land a spot with some of his lovers, but after sharing it with Geralt the thought of going there alone was too painful to even contemplate. He had few connections in Kaden so it was safer than anywhere to fish for a company and should worst come to worst, he could always follow Pontar river to the mountains and hole down in Posada, hoping they still remember the whole Devil business – or be willing to pay in harvest work if need be.

Luck seemed to be on his side, as he met Lucina Barite, one of the girls he taught last winter in the first small town he walked into. They chatted a bit over mulled wine and he asked if she might care for a tutor in exchange for lodging. She always showed promise in poetry, but a few months is barely enough time to teach her the theories, let alone actual writing. She agreed all too happily, gushing about her new sweetheart and how nice it would be to send him little love letters in rhyme.

Jaskier laughed at the naive romanticism and was planning to entertain her with a ballad or two, hoping the people around might spare him a coin or a few because he still didn’t have quite enough to feel comfortable with prospect of full winter on his lonesome, but-

Well, of course that’s when his luck  _ ran out _ just as quickly, because poor Lucina turned out to be in love with an utter brute with naught but stale air in his empty head. The idiot descended upon them with screams of infidelity and threats of violence, spitting about and red-faced from alcohol.

Jaskier, as stupid as he always was, tried to defend himself and underestimated the idiot’s coordination. It ended up with him held high and choked against the wall till his vision started to swim.

He kicked at the man but his foot slipped off the leather and twisted painfully. He scratched at his hands and face but the alcohol numbed the idiot to pain.

It took a fleeting thought of Geralt – if he will ever find out, how much will he laugh at his stupidity, how long till he shrugs him off and forgets him – before he remembered the blade. He reached for it blindly, fingers shaking. Panic filled him when he felt the small metal clasps and he cursed his petty choice of the embellishments as his hand slipped time after time, fingers unable to pry at the clasps. He cursed soundlessly and tried to reach for the eyes instead, but his vision was swimming and his arms wound’s go up and-

Someone’s hand caught his, closing it against a freed handle and he swung blindly without thinking. First high and wide between them, to make the idiot let him go. His ankle flared in pain and he crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath between violent coughing, his throat feeling raw and closed off.

There was screaming and he barely made out Lucina’s bright coat before him, her screams mixing with that of her lover and ringing in a cacophony in his ears. He barely got up before she was pushed to the side and the idiot lunged at him again.

The thing was, while Jaskier spent torturous hours being taught how to fence and duel properly, he very much preferred the method of  _ whatever works _ . So he kept low, unstable as he was on one leg and grabbed around the man’s middle, to sink the blade in his ass.

It was a cheap move, but also one that would both ground him and keep danger of long-lasting harm to minimum. He almost got squashed under the man, barely twisting out of the way as he fell, but only one of them got up. He didn’t wait before limping outside, glad he kept his coat on him and still clutching the blade up just in case.

Lucina caught up to him between buildings, guilt twisting her face.

“Go pacify him before they blame you.” He rasped, shivering at the way words kept scraping at his throat.

She slapped his arm weakly before pushing something into his free hand. His lute case,  _ fuck _ , what if he lost it?

“Here. For showing me his true face.” She looked at the verge of both bursting into tears and screaming in fury. “Now go!”

Jaskier didn’t need to be told twice, turning away to limp behind the buildings and into the safety of evergreen forest. He walked till he couldn’t drag his feet anymore and then pulled himself up the first tree with low enough branches.

He sacrificed the braided belt from his coat, cutting it off to tie up in lieu of the bandages, picking at the branches around to keep his foot straight. The night was still awful and the cold air provoked coughing fits that only made his throat hurt worse, but he wasn’t found and actually killed, so he decided to count his blessings where he could.

He followed the Buina river after that, slowly and keeping far from any villages and cities. Lucina hid a purse and a small bottle of wine in his lute case before giving it back so he managed to keep hunger at bay for the most part. The months spent with Geralt helped, letting him recognise the chicken mushrooms and even an early puffball. It wasn’t best, but he made do with that and occasional berry bush he picked clean. He didn’t want to risk getting close enough to people to have a try at the fields.

After a week he caught a ride with lumberjacks delivering trees to Buki village. He knew  _ of it _ , a small but highly respected place for coal and tar makers alike, keeping their trade secrets well and working in agreement with the royal family to keep themselves well protected.

Getting soaked as he sat on a bundle of tied up trunks was not his ideal method of transport, but with his throat still sore and blooming in all shades of green and purple, his voice cracking if he spoke longer than few word, and still limping to spare his twisted ankle his choices were severely restricted.

He took off before they reached the actual village, when the men stopped for a meal. He refused the jerky and took off, sipping on the rest of his wine. This close to Buki he came upon a walked-out road and his ankle was doing much better, although he probably won’t fully recover till winter hits. So his search for safe lodging became even more pressing, just as he lost his voice and looked bad enough to scare away anyone. Not to mention the rumours that surely spread already…

Whenever he felt too tired he reminded himself of his family, of their reaction should he ever come back home with a tail between his legs, defeated and pacified. The rage easily burnt away any pain or fatigue.

It was nearing nightfall when he noticed a fire and he was cold, tired and miserable enough to risk coming closer. It paid off, as the first thing he saw was Roach tied to the tree nearby and Geralt sitting by a roasting animal-something.

He felt tension bleed out of him pathetically fast and couldn’t force himself to care.

“Isn’t that lucky.” He laughed and made a face at how raspy he still sounded. Geralt gave him one look, frowned and moments later was gone with one a barked out command to  _ get warm _ .

Well. Not the welcome Jaskier hoped for, but to hell with that, a moment by the fire was worth everything right now. He did eye the roasting meat jealously and then finished his wine before he did something stupid.

Best not to overstay his welcome.

He must’ve dozed off, warmed and sitting comfortably for the first time in days.

_ He must’ve _ , because the next thing he knew there was a loud thump and when he looked up a vaguely human-looking  _ head _ was laying on the ground.

He did not screech, because his throat would hate him for it, but he did jump away and give Geralt’s bloodied face a glare.

“Are you out of your mind?!” he hissed out. “Little warning might be appreciated, what are you now, a freaky cat bringing spoils of your hunt or-?” he trailed off at the brief, almost spooked look on Geralt's face.

Right. Think  _ rationally _ . Maybe he was on a hunt and Jaskier just stumbled upon him? Not that it does explain him bringing this-  _ vile thing _ back, but maybe-

He had no time for further thought, because Geralt suddenly crouched down and then reached with a red spine and then used it to  _ jab his throat _ .

“What is  _ wrong with you-?!” _ he screeched and then stopped just as suddenly when it brought him no pain. Even the puncture burned for only a moment and nothing else.

That and because Geralt was actually smiling at him, a hesitant little thing.

“A scurver.” Geralt explained, pointing out the needles at the head he brought, as if that told Jaskier anything. For now he decided scurvers look like human hedgehogs and hoped he won’t need to know more. “They explode when nearing death, but if you behead them fast enough you can prevent it. There is a gland in the brain that reacts to things like low blood flow or hormones, releasing a numbing agent to override the survival instinct so another gland can force the brain to fry itself and cause the gases kept inside the body to explode. And the spines are covered in paralytic, to get the victim down as they fly around, for others scurvers to catch.” He explained, voice eerily similar to how Jaskier knew he sounded during his own lectures.

Jaskier wanted to ask for more, slightly unused to Geralt being that chatty, but there was a look to Geralt’s eyes, something warded off and almost haunted, so he bit his tongue.

“Thank you.” He said after a moment, rubbing absentmindedly at his throat. “Not the most pleasant way, but I guess you’re not used to humans with no idea that being poked with monster spines is actually meant to  _ heal _ and not  _ kill _ you.” He joked weakly and then laughed at the sheer surprise on Geralt’s face.

Looks like he hit the nail on the head.

“Uh…” Geralt looked away to that damned head and suddenly Jaskier had a very bad feeling, because the spine that poked him was removed earlier, so why the need to bring the head?

He found out a moment later, when he helped Geralt split the skull open to cut at the brain for that gland to make some healing paste with it. It smelt vile and looked even worse, but Geralt used what little he had of this paste on his ankle and when Jaskier could suddenly walk without trouble, he decided a bit of playing with filth was worth it.

His stomach took the longest to convince, but when the fresh batch of paste was put on his throat and he could easily feast on the roasted rabbit he couldn’t even remember what bothered him in the first place.

Also, well, he felt guilty for the way he screamed at Geralt. As they worked he noticed signs of fire damage here and there on his armour and clothes, saw the blood on his face and hands. He probably went out just to seek the monster he kept away from, all because Jaskier limped into his camp, neck black and blue, all in payment of his stupidity and carelessness.

“You blade certainly came in handy.” He admitted, as they both huddled on opposite sides of the fire, Geralt keeping watch and Jaskier on a borrowed roll and under his coat.

“Did it?”

Jaskier bit his lip, wondering if there was any way he could spin it into a heroic battle for maiden’s honour or something like that, but he felt painless and warmed by the meat and fire for the first time in days.

So he just sighed and admitted:

“The blade did, getting a brute off of me and stabbing his sorry ass. The sheath… not so much when  _ I couldn’t bloody open it _ .”

He expected to be mocked or lectured, prepared himself for it, but all that answered him was Geralt’s laugh.

Jaskier smiled despite himself and made a half-conscious promise to make a fool of himself more often if that was gonna be the result, before drifting to sleep.


	11. In which Jaskier ruins his fingers.

Turns out Geralt was going to the Buki on his way to spend winter with his other witcher. Jaskier carefully squashed down any silly hopes of fate bringing them close so they can winter together. He barely got Geralt to warm up to him after over a year, what hope would he have against who knows how many other witchers?

Not that he knew how many there were, Geralt rarely talked about things like that beside an occasional comment here and there so all Jaskier had to go off on was the fact that meeting a witcher was considered quite rare.

Luckily, as his guilt over snapping at Geralt was still alive and well, he easily busied himself with trying to come up with a way to compensate for it. After all, he knew best just how easily people attacked him and threw insult around, how could he do it so carelessly? Just because he was a little hurt and tired?

He remembers Geralt getting his thigh split open by something, last year, and watching him deal with it as he tried no to vomit at the sight of the blood and muscles spasming between flayed skin.

What were some bruises, compared to that?

Jaskier waits on the side as Geralt makes business when they reach Buki, something about coals made on order from special trees, to use in alchemy and when repairing the runes that enchanted his sword.

The place is tiny, a main street with rows of houses on both sides and a stray stall here and there, mostly showing off the produce. One of them was different and caught Jaskier eye with a stack of small white pelts, the fur twisting around not as tightly as lamb’s wool, but close enough to mistake it from a distance.

“You’ve got an eye for the Appinut pelts, pretty thing?” the man behind the stall smiled.

Jaskier nodded, looking curiously at a price much too high for such small pieces.

“Afraid I’ve yet to hear about the Appinut, would you indulge my curiosity, kind sir?”

The man laughed, a bit red under his beard before he launched into an explanation.

Appinuts turned out to be something between cat and moth, the size of the former. They had six legs, two pairs of wings and fluffy tails, but it was their chest-coat that was prized. They fed on mushrooms growing in the nearby mountains, but could be trapped with hazelnuts too. Otherwise the only way to catch them was to hope your torch reflected in the black eyes that shone in the darkness. But because of the shroom diet, the pelts usually took ages to brush clean from dirt or parasites, but  _ there wasn’t a warmer pelt this side of Grey mountains _ , apparently.

“Even the gits from Ban Ard play nice with us to keep stock for their fancy robes.” The man, Adam, smiled broadly and Jaskier returned it with ease. Geralt would surely go further and he held no illusion of being allowed to follow him much longer. Getting a place to stay a night or two would be a nice change after the woods.

He chatted a while longer, trying to think up how many new pieces of armor Geralt wore since Temeria. He noticed they weren’t insulated at all, probably meant for short fights and not constant use.

“…and those are-?” he pointed at the weird goggles hanging on Adam’s belt, made from leather and with tiny slits for the eyes only.

“Never seen snow goggles either?” Adam chuckled and sat by him on a bench. “There’s a rare tree, growing only high up to where snow never stops. Fresh fall will blind you if you look too much so those here-“ he picked up the goggles and put them gently to Jaskier’s face “-restrict your vision.”

Jaskier hummed with interest, asking how would you go about making such a thing. Geralt’s had enhanced senses, maybe it would help him?

“Planning for a winter?” Adam crossed his arms.

Jaskier froze for a second before smiling.

“Why, yes, I got some-  _ less than pleasant _ reception a while back so I’m looking for a new place to stay a while as I regroup.” He rubbed at his neck absentmindedly. The bruises were nearly gone, only a few stripes left, where the fingers dug the hardest.

Adam’s face darkened and he let out a few curses.

“Oh, it’s fine now!” Jaskier smiled, waving his hand dismissively. “My friend got a remedy to take care of the pain already  _ and _ it all came at the cost of saving a fair maiden from a brute, showing his true nature to her.” He shrugged off.

When he put it like that it had the beginning of a song, he will have to think about it later…

“Hope the maiden repaid you such favour.”

Jaskier smiled, leaning in a little closer.

“She did and I plan to spend my just reward on those lovely white pelts.” He reaches for one of the Appinut furs, waiting for a nod before picking it up.

It was ungodly, how soft the thing was on his skin and how warm his hand felt when he held it between the folded pelt. He calculated the price and decided it’s worth most of Lucina’s money to indulge a little and make amends with Geralt.

Witcher wouldn’t ever complain, he knew it, but he would definitely remember and the less reasons he has to abandon Jaskier, the better.

“I plan to insulate armour with them, gift for a friend. You wouldn’t know who could help me with it?” he looked at Adam briefly and hid his smile at the eager nod.

“Anna, my sister, she’s learning it! Old Greta might even lower the price for a chance of new experience. Can’t really afford to throw those at her for practice and we don’t exactly wear armors, you know?” he sighed suddenly, packing up the pelts Jaskier counted out. “Anna’s dreaming to serve the lords, see. But those won’t take you without skill and there ain’t much she can learn here.”

Jaskier nodded, knowing the feeling all too well – caught in one place and dreaming of spreading your wings to fly. He’s got enough coin to replace a few pelts if need be.

“That’s a mighty gift you’re planning.” Adam handed him the package without even looking at the payment before he put it away.

“Well, I’ve got a mighty friend, you see!” Jaskier knew he was almost preening, but he couldn’t care less. He was proud of Geralt and being his friend both. “The famous witcher, Geralt of Rivia.”

Adam looked surprised for a moment before he laughed.

“Right, the white wolf!” he slapped Jaskier on the back. “Good, then I approve wholeheartedly.”

Jaskier always jumped at anybody being less than murderous towards Geralt, greedy for any information  _ why. _

“Then, you’ve heard of him?” he asked innocently, but Adam shook his head.

“Heard of him? See him almost every year!” he pointed at a building Jaskier left Geralt at. “Think he’s been coming by before old Greta was even born! Him and the others would pay for half our winter expenses, getting the weird coals and the likes…” he trailed off, growing solemn. “Well, used to, at least.

Jaskier’s heart froze in fearful anticipation.

“What changed?”

“Dunno any details, but they’d come in spades, in winter and spring, but then  _ wham! _ ” Adam slapped his fist. “Rumours came about a bloodbath, king Raddy disgraced his mage and Ban Ard got all up in arms. Never seen more than a few witchers since, ‘s what I heard.” He shrugged awkwardly. “Never seen any new ones either.”

Jaskier’s heart was trembling with every word, like glass during an earthquake, but now it absolutely sank like a stone thrown into the lake.

Poor Geralt. How much worse had his exile been, self-inflicted or not, knowing the loss of the family already and now excluded from whatever was left of it? No wonder he’s so wary of getting close to him at all, who wouldn’t be?

His brain, on the other hand, worked in overdrive. Raddy must be Radovit II, he knew all about Astrogarus being exiled and causing trouble before his execution in Lyria. There weren't many details, of course, but he always snooped through annals in Oxenfurt and could assume enough to be horrified.

“But they’re good folk. Decent, don’t cheat us out and help if any freaks give us trouble.” Adam looked him over, straying longer at his throat. “Glad whitey got some friends. Heard all the lies about Blaviken.” He spit at the ground and grumbled out a curse. “None here believed it. Karol, he does all the special request, had to drag the stubborn witcher here so he’d come back to getting his supplies, when he found him after all that mess.”

Jaskier almost choked at the pet name, mouthing it silently, but his heart warmed a little at the knowledge that at least in this small corner of the world, Geralt and other wolf witchers had people kind to them.

Seeing Geralt on the street, he bid his goodbyes and agreed to meet Adam and Anna at their home later. He masked his melancholy asking about Geralt’s order and alchemy even if he barely understood anything and making a nuisance of himself so witcher won’t notice much of it was only for show.

This way, the witcher only rolled his eyes and told him where he’ll be sleeping when Jaskier said he found  _ company for the night _ and pretended to try and make up for it with cleaning Geralt’s armour. Jaskier was glad, in his current state he was prone to becoming uncontrollably nosy and he knew it wouldn’t be appreciated. Better to burn off the emotions.

Anna was a sweetheart and watching her work was mesmerising, even when she made small mistakes here and there. He didn’t think Geralt would notice a few missed up stitches.

But, apparently, even the  _ very nice indeed _ romp in the wood shack didn’t get him sorted out completely. He’s been rubbing at his belt so much Adam asked about it and having to answer made him realize what he was unconsciously wondering about.

He mulled over this until Anna finished the armour. As he looked over white fur contrasting nicely with black leather, stroking it absentmindedly, he finally decided to throw caution out of the window.

“Can you embroider on leather? This one?” he asked, reaching to unbuckle the belt. Anna looked it over for a good moment.

“Yeah, but ya’ll need needles from ol’ Greta. The strong ‘uns.” She said finally.

Jaskier almost jumped up, going for his lute case to take out the small embroidery pack he got with the sheath. The needles would work, if at risk of breaking soon after, but this was enough.

He asked Anna to show him the stitch he planned and then spend the night busy, white lilies of the valley slowly blooming across the blank leather.

He tried to ignore the small voice asking him  _ what he’s playing at, doesn’t he remember, you gift clothes to start courting in Kerack and those lilies were his family’s symbol, why would he come at Geralt like that- _

But it was nothing. A coincidence, a gift matching courtship by pure happenstance and nothing else.

What else could it be, after all?

The next day he drank some homemade nut spirit to shake himself awake and then ran to Geralt’s place. The owner pointed him to the doors to the attic and he climbed the stairs two at a time, more eager and giddy than normal from lack of sleep.

“Geralt!” he marched in with barely a knock, ignoring the unimpressed look witcher sent him from where he was putting on the shirt. “Here, good as new if not  _ better!” _ he presented him the bundle of armour pieces and awaited reaction.

Disappointingly, Geralt put them on the bed to finish dressing and only then started putting it on. Jaskier stood impatiently in place, almost screaming when Geralt finally picked up one of the arm braces Anna worked on.

“It’s Appinut fur. New pieces weren’t insulated and you’re gonna travel in winter, right?” he explained, rolling on the balls of his feet with hands behind his back. “Oh, and those! They should help with snow blind or whatever it’s called.” he reached to his belt to untie the newly made snow-goggles.

Between them and the stitched belt his fingers were absolutely hating him, but he didn’t care. As long as Geralt was happy-

Which,  _ was he _ , actually?

Jaskier looked him over, quieting down. Geralt stood frozen still, clutching the brace and looking between that and the goggles with the face of a man seeing a horse fly. Jaskier cursed his stupid ideas and took a hesitant step forward.

“Geralt?” he tried to coax him back to the present. “I just- wanted to repay you, for helping me. Without you I’d probably still be freezing my ass in the forest and those seemed fitting with the winter coming closer…?”

He trailed off when Geralt suddenly threw the brace on the bed and crossed the distance between them faster than he could blink. Jaskier held his breath, wondering if he’ll survive the beating for destroying witcher’s armour or whatever was gonna happen, when Geralt came even closer and-

He leaned in, broad hand warm at Jaskier neck as Geralt _leaned in_ _and put their foreheads together_ , eyes suddenly dark with the gold barely circling it before he closed them.

“Thank you.” He breathed it out, the words barely audible even this close.

Jaskier was speechless, standing still till he felt Geralt stiffen and try to pull back.

“W-wait!” he grabbed at him, hugging him as properly as you can hug a stiff wall of muscles. “There, next time just hug me instead of giving me a heart attack, you lout.” He chuckled, wondering if he ever touched him for this long, if he ever did so without Geralt in some kind of armour.

Geralt hummed something in agreement, relaxing for a while.

Somehow, letting him go was more painful than saying goodbye.


	12. In which Jaskier learn how to butter(c)up.

Jaskier couldn’t leave Ban Ard fast enough, still cursing his own stupidity for coming here at all. It wasn’t exactly his fault – he kept to Kaedwen because he hoped to run into Geralt as soon as he leaves in the spring.

He spent a nice time with Adam, learning embroidery from Anna and listening to bits of tales about witchers he managed to get from the people in Buki. They were painfully secretive, but a few days of honest work and singing praises of Geralt at dinners gained him enough favour.

That and the rumours about his gift to Geralt, which made old Greta smile so innocently, Jaskier was reminded of his cousin in the worst ways. Bastard could throw you off the tree and jump down safely and then still somehow make his parents punish Jaskier instead!

He couldn’t stay there for winter thought – didn’t want to risk meeting other witchers who came to trade just like Geralt.

So he followed the river to Aard Carraigh, where he spent two months falling head over heels all over again for the lovely Countess the Stael. He hoped his crush would’ve died off by now, still mortified at the memory of meeting her the first time as a hormonal teenager and making such a fool of himself.

Bringing her flowers at dinner only to babble about the endless mounds of her body with all the grace and subtlety of a battering ram, because he chose lilies of the valley and was stupid enough to eat one to make sure it was  _ as sweet as her voice _ too, landing him in a delirious fever for days.

Not that the poems he scribbled in apologies later were any better, but at least  _ that _ ended with him going to Oxenfurt instead of marrying poor Bibiana from a neighbouring province who was barely out of diapers. It was the first argument in the Pankratz mansion that didn’t end up with him crawling back to his parents, meek and defeated after days of being locked up in his room and relying on servants to sneak him anything besides water.

Meeting sweet Elaina was bittersweet, reminding him of the worst times at home and the simple bliss of his first love. It’s a wonder she didn’t laugh him out of her winter home in the city, but then her kind heart was always what drew him to her…

At least he could repair his image, showing her just how much better his poetry and music became after the few years they spent apart. It was- a little strange, to be with someone so openly affectionate after Geralt’s accidental courtships. It might’ve gone to his head, just a little, if the servants’ whispers about the way he _ monopolized all of poor countess’ time _ were anything to go by.

So he left at the first sign of spring. Which turned out to be a horrible mistake, because the snow only let up for two days before coming back with a vengeance and he had to hide somewhere or risk dying from frostbite.

Thus, Ban Ard, where he worked his way in by lying about making songs about their glorious adventures. It wasn’t all bad, some of the young men were nice enough to actually chat with, but the rectors? Not so much.

Especially one named Stregobor, who visited only for a week, but somehow spent most of it pestering Jaskier about the way he  _ rid the world of Curse of the Black Sun, putting his own life on the line to slay the cursed omens and tirelessly investigating the dangers they would’ve posed _ , hinting so blatantly about such deed deserving a song that he was barely a step away from outright demanding it. Jaskier wisely kept his mouth shut, swallowed bile rising to his throat and made up some silly verses while feigning awe in all the appropriate moments before the bastard finally left. Then he promised him a song and used very tasking work as an excuse to keep to himself after that.

Murdering children, little girls freshly born, because of something as asinine as  _ eclipse! _ And to boast about it, as if it was a deed worth praise and not utter and endless contempt!

He had to bite his fingers  _ bloody _ to stop himself from making songs defiling Stregobor. He knew all too well the power of a well-timed song. People love to hate and even more so to knock those high above them from their mighty pedestals. One song would be all it takes to destroy the bastards reputation, but- he can’t.

Not when he’s still working on Geralt’s reputation and not when he’s still boiling with anger so much. Emotions are great as motivation, but not inspiration. He cannot afford to make himself an enemy of sorcerers, with how close he is to a witcher. Last thing they need is to lose access to sorcery because of Jaskier’s poor temper.

So he stewed in his anger for the rest of time spent in Ban Ard, hiding away in the library to read the few books he was allowed. He tried to find more about king Radovit, but all he found was so much redaction even an idiot would realise something was wrong here.

He left as soon as the first melts began, following Liksela till it joined Pontar river. He stayed at Ban Gleán, as he told Geralt before they parted, since the fortress was the best place to get supplies before leaving Kaedwen.

He made himself busy with singing by the market, trying out new tunes about witchers he knew only by tale and not name. It didn’t hinder him too much, it was easy to just use ‘wolf’ and he likes to make sure people know which school he’s praising.

He was sitting by, strumming on the lute between bites of a meat pie.

“...shackled under moonlight pale by mage's mad desire, lay by spells and opium bound. With silent screams their souls were burnt from inside-out by ire, till they rose all ember-crowned~” he adjusted the note before continuing, bringing it a little lower. “An army that would burn the world to cinders at his hand, one thing has slipped from crazed mind-”

“This one’s new.”

“Geralt!” Jaskier smiled, head snapping up, and then promptly burst out laughing.

It was Geralt, except with a fresh haircut, his long hair kept in a messy bun atop his head with the sides and back shaven almost clean. It wasn’t bad, it actually looked pretty fetching on the witcher, but Jaskier was so surprised it took Geralt frown and the flash of hurt in his eyes to get him to calm down.

“S-sorry, you surprised me, is all.” He moved to the side and patted the other side of the fallen tree he claimed as his own, blatantly showing off two pies he had left as well.

Geralt gave him a suspicious look before he sat down, letting a heavy bag fall to the ground.

“Song is new.” He said again and Jaskier bit his lips, suddenly unsure.

It was about one of the stories he heard from old Greta, about a mage burning down a monastery to bring down blazing revenge onto the world and how a witcher came by with burn marks soon after.

“Right, well, can’t exactly sing just about you, my witcher.” He laughed nervously and waved a hand when Geralt pointed to the pies. Suddenly he lost any appetite, his stomach tied up in knots. “Heard a few tales over the winter, you know, just trying stuff out. Pretty tedious when I’ve no idea what the monsters were and all, but I can always use mental exercise.”

Geralt gave him a long look and Jaskier tried very hard not to squirm under his gaze, feeling like a child caught stealing from the kitchen. Except he dearly hoped Geralt would try and beat out the bad behaviour out of him.

He’d leave other witchers alone, if Geralt asked. He really would, no matter his curiosity.

Geralt finished the pies, licking his fingers clean and then they still sat in a silence for a while before he finally said:

“Ifrits.”

Jaskier blinked, remembering the words from conversation in Ban Ard, but not what it was. It must’ve shown on his face because Geralt sighed before explaining shortly:

“They’re the fire genies. Mages can summon them, to do their bidding.”

Jaskier nodded, tapping his leg nervously.

“…and the plants spitting poison?” he risked, assuming that getting information is as close as he’ll get to permission to perform the song.

Geralt frowned, clearly not happy with the topic, but before Jaskier could backtrack he relaxed a little and sighed more than said: “Archespores. Grow in place of torture or graves of its victims.” He hesitated for a moment. “A mage tried to trap ifrits in human bodies, once. Didn’t end well for him.”

“I would hope it ended in the worst way.” Jaskier shuddered and rubbed his arms, suddenly cold at the thought that he spent days among people who might end up just like that.

King Radovit’s mage, this one, Stregobor – if not for Geralt’s soft heart he might’ve assumed that magic corrupts all it touches, like people whisper about it at night. Usually right before using magical medicine or hiring a witcher, of course…

Geralt flashed him a brief smile.

“Gwen always regretted killing him too fast.” He muttered as he stood up, so quiet Jaskier wasn’t sure he heard him at first. He put his lute away and caught up to Geralt, trying to get a good look at his face to get proof. All it did was make him blush as his eyes strayed to the line of Geralt's skull and neck, naked with his hair shaved and tied up.

“Never met a  _ miss witcher. _ ” He joked, fiddling with a kerchief before folding it up to put away.

Geralt chuckled.

“He always hated that name.” he said, voice once again quiet.

Jaskier hummed mindlessly, not pushing despite curiosity burning through him. The word choice told him enough.

“So who gave you the spring sheering?” he changed the topic, smiling brightly when Geralt huffed a laugh.

“Vesemir. Me and others, it’s easier when summer hits.” He answered, hand reaching absentmindedly to tuck a few strands behind his ear. “It’s been years since-” he stopped, frowning.

Jaskier nodded and looked around with feigned boredom.

“I remember when I ran away from the haircut and my parents just left me like that. For a year! It was poor misery, I tell you.” He wagged his finger at Geralt, stepping in front of him. “It does suit you, though.” He tilted his heads, seizing Geralt up and felt his heart warm up when he noticed white fur under the armour piece tied to witcher’s pack. “Good thing you grunt and frown, else you'd be beating off ladies with those swords.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and walked past him, hitting his shoulder lightly, but then turned around just as quickly.

“Got something.” He rummaged through the pack’s pocket and then threw Jaskier a small bottle.

There was a flower pressed into the glass and his heart lurched this time, recognizing the buttercup and the sigil at the cork.

“Why do you have  _ perfume? _ ” slipped out before he could stop himself, but Geralt just shrugged.

“Got it with the last payment. It’ll be wasted on me, so have it.”

Jaskier forced out a small smile, wondering how much further down the rabbit hole will they both fall before he finally breaks, because really? The aphrodisiac perfumes, what’s next? Sharing a brothel because they’re low on coin?

He opened the bottle, sniffing at the perfume carefully. It was sweet, overly so, but not so much it can’t be usable-

“It’s not that bad.” He raised an eyebrow when Geralt jumped away in a coughing fit, but quickly corked the bottle. “How good  _ are  _ your senses? It must be a hindrance sometimes.” He wondered, not really expecting an answer.

“Inhuman.” Geralt waved a hand in front of him, a sudden gust of wind pushing any remnants of the perfume far from them. “It can get in the way, in big cities or a market.” He admitted.

Jaskier looked at the bottle again and sighed.

“Thanks. I’ll remember to wear it far from you.” He joked weakly and put the bottle safely away, so it wouldn’t break.

He got a feeling I would rot before he ever uses it.


	13. It wavers.

“If all the young ladies were singing this song, it would be twice as dirty and three times as long~!” Jaskier held onto the note to the cheer of the drunken crowd, before finishing with a bow.

He sat down, wiping down his face and cursed the spring heatwave.

“Here, here!” one of the workers slapped his back and pushed a tankard of beer to him.

Jaskier gulped it greedily and wiped his mouth.

“Well, at least you’re not the one fighting in full black armour!” he jokes, sending a glance at the door before he could stop himself.

“Ya worry ‘bout witcher?” another man laughed and took a gulp of his beer. “Reckon won’ come back?”

“Of course not!” Jaskier snorted, putting his lute and the coins thrown by the crowd away. “It’s just some wolf, I’m not worried for his safety, but stalking anything in this heat would be a drag.” He sighed.

At least he knew how to take off the fur from Geralt’s armour, having asked Anna before he left Buki. That would probably give even a witcher a heatstroke. Although Great did always run pretty cold, rarely taking off the armour except for the baths and those he ran so hot Jaskier risked burns if he was helping him wash…

“Nah, won’t take long. Bloody freak glows like fireflies, won’t take long to find it!”

Jaskier nodded, before freezing in place.

The contract was for a wolf-like beast, which Geralt assumed would be something called amarok, because they often breed in spring and are easily agitated. It fit the description.

Except Jaskier had no idea if amaroks glow, but he knew what canine  _ does _ from a book he came upon on Ban Ard.

“I’m sorry, did you say  _ glow? _ ” he asked, all fake innocence and bright smiles, tapping on the table so his hand won’t slip to the knife at his tight.

“Yeah! You bet ‘ey glow right up!” the first man shuddered before finishing his beer and called for another. “Spooked Chris ‘ere to new pair ‘o pants, eh?” he laughed as Chris jabbed an elbow into his side.

Jaskier jumped to his feet and ran out of the tavern, heart pounding in his chest.

It was probably nothing. Sure, glowing dogs meant barghests, if he figured it out correctly, and those are summoned by something else, but Geralt was a seasoned witcher. It shouldn’t be much trouble, right?

Except, Geralt left Roach in the town stable, because Rudnick laid between three Redanian provinces known from territorial squabbles, so bandits had a field day using it to safely pillage at the borders, safe in knowledge that the lord will sooner blame each other than actually do something.

With Roach he also left the bag, having taken only a few potions and his swords. The knowledge about mages and their depravities was still fresh in his mind, easily making him imagine the worst outcomes.

He didn’t even saddle Roach, untying her and throwing the saddle bag over his arm before kicking her sides. She must’ve felt some of his agitation because she sprung out from the stable and through the main road.

“Find Geralt, please, you’re such a smart girl, you must know how to find him, do it and I’ll bury you in apples, I swear...” He was mumbling, barely aware of the acute pain of riding bareback, fingers clutching at her mane.

It will be fine. It must be. Geralt lived decades on his own and survived. He wouldn’t die just from a silly mistake. He was sure of it.

His mind was, at least. His heart still trashed in his chest, as if it wanted to jump out and run for the witcher all on its own.

He almost fell when Roach reared back suddenly. Something bright and green flashed before them with a deafening growl. Jaskier’s heart froze for a change, breath caught in his throat.

Then a burst of flame made the sickly fluorescent beast turn and a silver sword flayed it’s flank, sending it running.

“Geralt-!” Jaskier fell gracelessly to the ground, leaning on Roach to keep himself standing. “It’s not the- the wolf-thing, it’s-”

“Are you mad?!” Geralt snapped at him, striding to look over Roach before hitting him with an icy glare of eyes as dark as moonless night, dark veins cutting through his face.

Jaskier barely noticed it, his heart skipping a beat when he saw blood on Geralt’s arm and blade, something green bubbling up on the side of his armour.

“Well, a tad irked, actually, since you’re asking.” He sniped. “They lied in the notice, it’s not-”

“I know!” Geralt roared, catching Jaskier by scruff to throw him to the side, another wave of wind pushing two barghests back. Roach jumped to the side, rearing up to kick at the third one. Jaskier scrambled to his feet, hand clutching the knife at his thigh. “Leave before you get her killed!” Geralt snapped, turning to swipe at the glowing dogs back.

Jaskier froze for exactly one second before throwing the saddle back at Geralt’s head, uncaring for the glass bottles inside.

“Fuck you, Geralt!” he yelled, fingers rolling into fist. “See if I’ll ever bother to  _ care _ again!” he turned around, gritting his teeth and blinking away angry tears as he ran for the hills, Roach smartly following behind him.

He was patient and understanding – Geralt was a loner, unused to company after Blaviken and probably scared of losing someone like he did his witcher family, but this was  _ cruel _ .

It was cruel in the way only complete indifference can ever be, so searingly hot it feels cold instead of burning.

Because  _ what was he doing _ , right? A stupid bard, running off half-cocked with his useless worries and feelings, throwing them at Geralt when he didn’t need them at all, fine and dandy all on his perfectly capable lonesome!

He stopped, leaning against Roach to keep upright as he gasped for breath.

What was Jaskier thinking, caring for him at all?!

He rubbed at his eyes and sat by the tree, ignoring Roaches inquisitive headbutts until she gave up.

He’ll stay. Not to see if Geralt survives, but in fear of what he might do if he sees the people that put the contract up, his fingers still twitching with the need to stab something.

He grabbed the knife, stopping himself just before he cut into a tree, instead stabbing into the ground, again and again and again until his arms trembled from exhaustion. He held it tight, shaking as he started sobbing, fear and grief and rage pouring out of him.

How dare he, right? How dare he get close to a mighty witcher and feel anything for him. Stupid bard, who’d ever want anything from him – who would ever need him?

He resisted the urge to rip the blade out and stab at the tree, till the metal broke into pieces, to match what felt like pure heartbreak.

Geralt comes back tired, covered in blood and the same glowing ooze, a branch tangled in loose hair. Jaskier gives him a short onceover before he goes back to braiding flowers into Roache’s main, mare’s head heavy on his lap.

Geralt stands for a while, air heavy enough to cut with Jaskier’s blade still stuck in the ground. If Geralt notices it, he doesn’t show it. He’s gone again a moment later and Jaskier has a brief moment of panic that Roach will get up and go after him, leaving him behind, but she only huffs and moves her head a little.

“At least  _ you _ won’t kick me for being nice.” He grumbled and reached for another flower. Her mane’s a rainbow of spring blooms, in all colours, the ground around them picked clean.

Geralt comes back after a while, dry wood hitting the ground with a heavy thud.

“Hold him.” Next is a rabbit, tied at the legs and squirming as soon as it lands on Jaskier’s lap. He glares at Geralt’s back, reaching to sit the poor thing upright and starts petting it. It’s probably petrified from fear, but his mind is exhausted and brings up the worst thing that it can.

There is an insult around,  _ whore’s rabbit _ , because in the old days a master would buy rabbits for his exclusive prostitutes, giving them a steady source of meat since they lowered their income. Nowadays it’s thrown at whoever is a pushover and takes it without fuss, allowing themselves to be used.

Becoming  _ a pretty tool with a use _ , but no emotions attached.

_ Whore’s rabbit with a bird’s brain,  _ Jaskier clutches the fur for a moment before loosening his grip.  __ It’s a mistake, because he sees exactly the moment when Geralt grabs it to snap its neck and begins prepping it, skin splitting with a sickly snip, bits of fur flying in the air.

Rage bubbles up in him for no reason, really no reason at all. He didn’t want the stupid bunny, he’s not even a  _ kept bard _ as Geralt showed him so clearly earlier, bloody horse more important in the face of danger.

“You’re teaching me to fight.” He announced, not even looking up. “Either that or I sell it for dirt cheap to whoever we see first!” he hissed, pointing vaguely at the blade stuck in the ground.

Geralt all but growls, reaching to pull it up and wipe it from the dirt. If there’s something reliable about him it’s that he cares greatly for weapons, both his own and in general.

At least Jaskier can count on  _ that _ being predictable.

They continue to sit in silence as Geralt puts the prepped rabbit over the fire, guts buried and the skin cleaned to trade in town. Jaskier ignores his grumbling stomach and turns around when Roach gets up to munch on spring grass by the trees.

Jaskier grinds his teeth as the smell of roasted meat grows in the air, trying to remember the time right after he finished Oxenfurt and ran, when he was starving and desperate enough to dig through food thrown for compost.

His stomach still betrays him, grumbling pointedly loud in the heavy silence.

“It was a wight.” Geralt speaks up suddenly and Jaskier forces himself to continue braiding strands of grass. Maybe if he weaves it thick enough he can strangle himself. Or Geralt, it’s still a tossup right now. “They hibernate in winter, must’ve woken one up when the new mine-”

“I don’t  _ care _ .” Jaskier interrupts him, throwing the grass braid into the fire. It’s a mistake, his stomach lurching at the sight of meat so he quickly looks away, squinting to see the grass in the quickly fading light.

Geralt sighs, putting Jaskier’s knife down by his leg, but careful not to touch him. They sit in silence again, for a while, and Jaskier wished he could at least play to get on Geralt’s nerves to make him leave and-

Fuck, he left his lute! Hopefully the barmaid will keep it safe, he did charm her up a little before performing and she seemed nice enough when he paid for a room…

“We need to-”

“ _I’m_ going back to the tavern for my lute as soon as the sun rises up. You do whatever you like, witcher, _I don’t fucking_ _care_!” Jaskier snaps and turns away, curling on himself on cold ground and trying to suppress a shiver. He’s not sure if he’s glad that he left the coat in the tavern too, or the opposite.

It was Geralt’s gift, but also would let him actually sleep and not squirm around in cold shivers.

There is more silence, the crackling of the fire as Geralt feeds it’s more wood, and then silence again. Jaskier almost manages to doze off when he hears shuffling and then something heavy lands on him.

He sits up, Roache’s blanket sliding off of him. Right, he didn’t saddle her and didn’t take this off either…

He gives Geralt a glare, adamant to keep his anger boiling, but it’s a mistake. The sun came up for the last time between clouds and now he can see all the blood, the ooze eating at his armour, witcher sitting stiff as a pole and the meat put aside, but untouched.

Jaskier sighs and moves closer to punch his arm, not  _ too hard _ so he won’t hurt himself.

“You’re a fucking bastard.” He hisses, before sighing again and throws the blanket around his arms. “Give me some before it gets cold.” He throws as neutrally as he can manage, his stomach grumbling.

Geralt moves after a moment, as if he was afraid to despite Jaskier’s metaphorical olive branch. Then of all things he gives Jaskier the heart first.

Jaskier wants to snap again – that’s it’s supposed to be  _ a cookie _ shaped like a heart and that it’s for kids and in the spring, but he takes a deep breath and just eats the damn thing. Next is a liver and lungs, then kidneys, and three legs before he pushed the next piece away.

They still ate in silence, Jaskier anger slowly simmering down. Hunger soaked up a lot of it and they both vanished after the meal, but Geralt’s words are still echoing in his mind.

“I didn’t…” Geralt trails off and sighs. Jaskier looks up just to see him rub a hand down his face, smearing drying blood around. “Nobody  _ cares _ .” He says finally, with such bewildered tone that Jaskier lets him continue. “People don’t- they don’t worry, they just want the result they pay for. I make do, because I have to. Witchers adapt, or die.”

Jaskier’s pretty sure the last sentence is repeated after someone, but bites his tongue before saying how idiotic it is. He’s tired of being angry. He forgot how exhausting it is.

“Well, I’ll make sure to not spell it out next time.” He snorts instead and throws a braided piece of grass at Geralt. “Good night.” He adds amicably, after settling down wrapped in the blanket.

Food and some sleep help, but he’s still petty and resentful, so when they finally get back to the village he takes over cleaning Geralt’s armour just to embroider tiny little hearts here and there, where they won’t be seen. The last of his anger leaves him when Geralt sees his fingers, reddened from pushing the needle and goes out shortly to come back with some fresh paste,  _ for the burns from wight’s acid _ .

The emptiness it leaves behind seems even worse.


	14. In which Jaskier engages in flower warfare.

Next days are solemn and quiet. Geralt takes every contract thrown his way, often gone before he even hears the price. They get along fine, if both skittishly hesitant, so Jaskier tries not to let it bother him, tries to be understanding, but after a month he’s had enough.

They reached Amakar on the cusp of summer festival, flowers everywhere and thick braids of them on every windowsill.

“Well, guess it’s camp again.” Jaskier throws it at the air, but still hears Geralt stiffen. “Can you manage for the meal and to see the notice board?” he gives the witcher a look, eyebrow raised, daring him to refuse him.

Geralt hesitated for a while before giving him a sharp nod, the brief, shy smile melting something in Jaskier.

They’re in luck, in a way, the town’s mayor all but begging them to stay and do something about the werewolf that attacked the village twice already. With the festival happening on the new moon they’re desperate and very generous, so Jaskier agrees before Geralt can even speak up. Witcher’s frown does make him wonder though, so as he watches him make camp, he finally asks about it.

“Werewolves are tricky.” Is all he gets.

So since normal methods don’t work, Jaskier gets sneaky. He picks up all the wild flowers he can, lucky to find a nice patch of scarlet pimpernels. He waves it swiftly into a wreath and then goes to unceremoniously drop it at Geralt’s head where he’s mixing some herbs.

He gets a weird look, but otherwise the witcher doesn’t react. So Jaskier makes another wreath, plopping it right above the first one.

“Talk or I’ll continue.” He says with a grin, anger long-gone and replaced by worry that wormed its way into the gaping empty void that was left.

Geralt rolls his eyes, but does talk more, slow and hesitant at first before he gets going, like always when he can prattle on about monsters. “Werewolves can either be born as one or cursed into it. Former can control their transformation and keep lucid, the latter are the crazed monster… there's a small chance a bite might change you, but I’ve only heard about it.”

“ _ Ooooh _ .” Jaskier sighs and sits by Geralt, not leaning against as he would’ve before, but still close enough. “No time to figure it out with only two days, huh?”

Witcher gives him a startled look before nodding slowly.

“That nobody’s missing or acting strange means it came from outside, which only makes it harder to figure out.” He sighs and moves to pour some concoction into small bottles.

Jaskier hums, tapping his leg.

“What were those black eyes, by the way?” he asks, smirking at the way Geralt spills the last bit on the grass. He never asked, but lately he’s been feeling more and more greedy for information about Geralt.

He ignores the glare, waiting for his answer.

“Cat potion. Lets me see in the dark.”

Jaskier hummed again, smiling wider.

“That’s what you were doing here?” he looks down at the bottles.

Geralt waits a moment, as if weighing his chances of surviving Jaskier’s pestering once he starts, and then answers.

“Black Blood. Puts enough toxin in my blood to make anything that bites me reconsider their dinner plans.”

Jaskier nods and then pesters Geralt until he explains other potions. It’s slow-going, but as they finish, his witcher's more relaxed than in weeks and Jaskier even gets him to make an awful joke about the  _ full moon _ potion, of all things.

While the two days pass nicely, the moment Geralt starts preparing for the hunt his mood drops. Jaskier sighs, strumming his lute mindlessly.

“If it ends badly I can try and make up for it with a song.” He offers weakly, but Geralt doesn’t even react.

Jaskier looks over to the wreaths, hung up on the tree so Roach won’t try eating them. They’re wilting and Jaskier has half a mind to take them to Amakar and get them made into perfumes. The buttercup one is still untouched, but he can see himself using the pimpernel one.

He hoped Geralt has no idea they’re supposed to be gifted as courting gift to make into a perfume used to indicate, well, horny mood from the giftee, the quality of sex deciding the nuptials.

Jaskier is not interested in explaining that they are just friends when his belief they’re friends at all is still so shaky and tender.

So maybe a  _ no _ to the perfume, but he doesn’t want to just let it rot away. Too much symbolism for his liking.

He puts down the lute to pick one wreath up and starts looking for a good place to start undoing it, when he feels Geralt watching him.

“Want to dry them or something. Shame to let them wilt.” He shrugs, faking indifference.

“I can soak them, there is a potion that can keep them fresh.” Geralt offers slowly, but Jaskier shakes his head.

That doesn’t really seem right either.

He’s not sure what he wants, just to do something! To get out of this post-anger depression!

“Well, doesn’t really matter since we’ll be leaving soon, right?” He throws the wreath away. “You finish prepping for the fun and I’m gonna go and have my own at the festival.” He winks at the witcher and laughs at the face he makes.

Maybe some sex and wine and dancing will help him. Nothing beats a summer festival, right?

At least that’s what he hoped for, but not luck. The baker was perfectly nice, but Jaskier couldn’t get in the moment and then even get it up. He laughed it away as too much spiced wine and still took care of the man – anything less would be rude since he enjoyed their talk and especially the recipe for campfire bread he got.

Still, it meant he came back to camp at ass o’clock, feeling as weird as when he left it.

That’s how he found Geralt, sat by dying fire, two wolves’ heads nearby, his swords abandoned on the ground and his armour still on. When he got closer he smelt blood and ran the rest of the way, cursing when he saw Geralt’s arm without any braces and covered in cuts, blood drying up with dirt stuck to it.

“Why are you just sitting there for, hmm?” he sighed, but he knew the general answer.

Most hunts were fine. Geralt could come back a little battered, sometimes angry at what he fought or who send him out, maybe still twitchy with pent-up energy and snapping at the world at large, but rarely, he would come back… not catatonic, exactly, but numbed and lost in his own mind.

Jaskier made himself busy, cause there was no pushing when Geralt was in such a state. He wiped the swords the best he could with rags and alcohol, then poured half the bottle of buttercup perfumes around the heads to keep off any predators.

That seemed to shake Geralt out of his daze, a little bit. He blinked at Jaskier as he started cutting away his sleeve, to start cleaning up his wounds.

It still took a while before the words came out, slowly, in bits and pieces, choked out as if stuck in Geralt’s throat.

The werewolf did come from afar. A woman, born a werewolf and a survivor of a massacre of her family. She killed off the hunters, but was surprised by their child that snuck after them. She bit them by accident and by the struck of misfortune, the bite changed the kid, leaving them a monster in the moonlight and hateful toward her in the daylight. She still kept the kid safe and tried to prevent them from hurting anyone, but it clearly wasn’t working.

“She wouldn’t let me kill the kid.” Geralt finished, staring blankly and letting Jaskier move his arm where he needed to clean up the gashes, putting on the paste he knew would help. “I would’ve spared her, she never meant any harm, but she wouldn’t let me close enough.”

Jaskier sighed and wrapped his arm before sitting by his side, leaning against Geralt. He had nothing to say, nothing to sooth him or help, because how do you even cheer up someone forced to kill against their will and morals?

He sighed again and closed his eyes, letting his nature take over and improvising.

“Wolf-mother, where you been? You look so worn, so thin. Wolf-mother, at the door. You don't smile anymore. You're a drifter, shape-shifter…” he trailed off and bit his lip. Geralt was looking at him, eyes still darkened by potions a little.

Jaskier smiled and reached to slowly take out the branch and leaves from his hair, then brushing his fingers through it.

“When you run through the deep dark forest, long after all was done. When the sun had set, they both were dead, forever undone… I thank the trace that led you back home, to this place. Even with no sound, with only me, and your disgrace…” he cut off again, turning around so he can wrap his arms around Geralt.

Witchers don’t cry. With the amount of wounds he saw Geralt suffer through he wasn’t sure he’s still able to. But as he hides his face in Jaskier hair, breaths coming out in great huffs of air, it might as well be the same thing.

“On the winds, a voice will sing how fate has forced you hand. Let it go, child of war, I’ll lend a mending hand.” He finished and turned to humming mindlessly the same melody, leaning on Geralt and wishing the world wasn’t so cruel.

He looks over the wreath on the tree, flowers dark and starting to smell sickly sweet.

When sun comes up and Geralt goes to close the contract, Jaskier finds a good willow tree and gathers nice, bendy branches. He twists and ties them slowly, measuring up to Roach, before finally he can attach it carefully to her bridle.

He grins when she shakes her head before leaving it be with a snort that sounds suspiciously close to Geralt’s indulgent huffs. He’s not even sure who’d be copying whom.

He gathers flowers again, putting them easily between the branches. When they dry they should still be fine, so there will be no more complaining about picking out plants from Roach’s hair.

The startled laugh the whole thing got from Geralt when he came back was worth absolutely everything.


	15. In which Geralt shares his poetry.

Jaskier almost runs off as soon as they pass the gate of the castle of Countess the Stael. The blazing summer heat is a torture to deal with on the open road and the thought of the cold stone halls lure him there stronger than a sirens’ song. Geralt literally has to grab by the scruff, pulling him back before he marched straight under the wheel of a carriage. He laughs it off and looks around, smiling brightly at the shops and stalls filled with goods from all over Temeria, bright fabrics and fancy accessories on the display.

He laughs again when he notices Geralt sneaking glances to smith’s display and gives him a small shove.

“Go, I’ll make my own rounds and we’ll meet at the castle? Give my name if anyone would try giving you trouble, dear countess assured me we're both welcomed here.” He pushed him again and then strutted to the first stall with silks of good enough quality.

He barely found them something proper to wear as they travelled here, hoping the trends didn’t change in a week. It would be a shame to cause a scene when he planned this whole thing to help Geralt relax.

Elaina’s summer ball was perfect to keep up Geralt’s good name and to give them an excuse to indulge in some leisure. Geralt’s name carried much more favour in Temeria and keeping it like that for long enough should help spread it through traders – and there is no better way to make merchants whisper about you than come to an important royal party.

He stumbled when he heard a whistle, looking around out of habit. There was an old woman leaning slightly out the window, a flute in her hands. A man manning the silk stall waved to her with a shake of his head before he turned to Jaskier.

“Something here you’d like, sir?” he asked.

Jaskier nodded slowly, still looking up that window.

“I apologize for intruding, but that whistle-?” he probed gently, glad when the man only laughed.

“You’re not local, are you?”

“No, I’ve been invited by our lovely countess as an entertainer and a guest.” He shook his lute case. “I played some flute as a child and wondered.”

“It’s tradition, here, see? Carve a flute and give to your beloved, to give signal when it’s safe to sneak away.” The man smiles, clearly reminiscing as he sends his wife a kiss. “Not as harsh these days, lucky thing, but I remember getting myself chased with pitchfork when I got lost in the stables.”

Jaskier joins his laugh half-heartedly, a stray thought almost in his grasp-

“If you’d want one, they sell them ready-made a bit further down, too.” The man smiled indulgently and Jaskier felt a blush flood his face.

Gods, this is why it seemed familiar. When he first met countess and ended up delirious, he was told when she was leaving. He was lucid enough to remember her talk about flutes, but in his state took his father’s hunting whistle and blew it hard enough that he actually fell out of the balcony in surprise. At least Elaina was already too far to actually see it…

How did he ever forget it?

He picks up the first silk that looks nice enough and buys some, then hightails away before the old man says anything else.

The rest of the shopping went without a hitch, thank all the gods still on his side. He even went overboard and bought some ribbons matching his outfit for Geralt, hoping to convince the witcher to let him do something to his hair.

He’s gotten into a habit of braiding things lately, between the grass to take out his anger and the willow branches for Roach. He laughs at the thought of his mother scolding him for  _ itchy fingers _ . He still remembers how he laughed at her explanation that since in Kerack they braid hair in courting, people in love will get itchy fingers. He was pretty sure it was just a way to shrug off children put into political marriages fidgeting in panic as their  _ willingness _ .

She would also threaten to slap his own with a ruler if he ever got so desperate. Because that’s a commoner’s silly afflictions, those of noble blood do not succumb to their bodily urges unless it’s convenient. He still remembers asking  _ you mean those urges _ before he mimed jacking off.

She did beat his hand with a spoon for that.

He makes a face, rubbing his finger as he looks over a stall with hair accessories. He got the ribbons, but he also hoped to get a gift for Elaina, since she invited them and all, especially for welcoming his witcher as well.

He sighs when nothing catches his eyes and goes to look for Geralt. He finds him by another smith’s stall, a knife sheath in his hands.

“That looks familiar.” Jaskier uses the noisiness of the crowd to sneak up on Geralt, relishing in the way his head twitches in his direction.

“You should change it.” Geralt points out Jaskier’s own sheath.

He looks at it, making a face at the marks of crude removal of all but one of the little belts keeping the blade in place. His shoulder jerks, a phantom jolt going through his neck at the memory of being strangled, his only weapon behind a wall of fancy little buckles.

He hummed in agreement and reached to take the sheath in hand, looking at it.

It’s still  _ pretty _ , to his surprise, made from leather dyed dark green and with a simple belt that you can slip down a handle if you can’t loosen it. He has a passing thought that lilies of the valley would look pretty on the bottle green background, before he snorts at his own inane fantasies.

His fingers had enough pain after the belt and his hearth-stitching-revenge.

“Sure, I’ll take it.” Jaskier reaches for his purse, but the vendor shakes his head at the same time as Geralt stiffens by his side.

“Big fella paid already.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow, following Geralt as he stalked away, a witcher’s version of squirming.

“Any special occasion?” he asks finally, as they wait to be let in by the guard to the castle proper.

Geralt just shrugs.

“Knew you’ll get things for the ball.”

“Wait, darling, you mean you’re letting me-?”

Geralt twitches again before he sighs.

“There was no stopping you.” He says finally and moves forward.

Jaskier does not squeal, but he does start going on about everything he had from clothes to oils to ribbons, his language growing more flowery and pretentious the worse Geralt is at hiding his smile.

“And you are?” a familiar voice interrupts him and Jaskier turns with an even bigger smile.

“Harold! Wondered if we’ll meet here, old dog.” He laughs. “How’s Esme?”

The guard makes a face at the old nickname before brightening up at the mere mention of his wife, immediately launching into a trade about his daughter and the son they’re expecting this autumn.

It takes a few people around clearing their throats before he stops, blushing.

“Right. One viscount-

“Countess’ guest and one witcher!” Jaskier talks over him, wondering how could he have been this stupid.

He drags Geralt along – which just means he pulls and Geralt lets himself be moved – and by strike of luck he isn’t forced to suddenly explain his royal title so it’s all perfect, really.

He goes right back to gushing about the clothes he got, to keep the little almost-slip far away from Geralt’s mind. Burying it under banalities of attending a ball sounds like a good plan. He’s pleasantly surprised his witcher knows all his forks and glasses, but he has to refresh some of his courtly gestures and behaviours by half a century.

Geralt is clearly suspicious and, well, was it some other royal gifts he absolutely would’ve set Geralt at them clueless and forced them to play nice lest they anger a witcher, but this is Elaina’s summer ball! He’d never do that to her.

When that doesn’t work, Geralt’s frown only growing, he brings out the admittedly better argument.

“I’m a bard here, you dolt. Why would I show myself with a  _ disgrace  _ in public, so nobody hires me again?” he snorts and goes about pulling out their clothes for the ball, so they can get some air.

Geralt rolls his eyes at the  _ disgrace _ part, but seems to believe his good will enough.

Jaskier sends him to a bath and then begins digging through his bag, to get out everything. He had to stop, cursing as his palm tings suddenly and just throws all the content onto the bed to be safer. That’s when he finds it – the hairpin, one he bought so long ago, hoping to make a fool of Geralt.

He sighs, rubbing a finger against lily crossing the blade, and puts it away. Elaina knows too much of Kerack to let him get away with it without pestering him with questions.

He prepares their outfits for the night and then gathers all the oils and other things, so he can follow Geralt. He finds him in the spacious bathroom, steam so thick he has to suppress a cough.

“Do you ever bathe in water colder than the point of boiling?” he grumbles, going to sit by the bath where Geralt looks almost dazed, covered to his chin with water, hair loose and sticking to his skin.

Jaskier shakes his head all he gets is an incoherent mumble, Geralt not even opening his eyes.

He washed himself, putting oil in to sit in his clean hair and then sat by Geralt.

“Let me help.” He reaches for a cup to wet his hair properly, then gets to washing it.

He worked out a routine, by now, having done it often enough with the way Geralt seems so keen on bathing in the gore whenever he can. He has to start harsh, rubbing away anything stuck and hardened with just water before he uses unscented soap and wide brush.

He tries not to make a face at all the debris he picks out to throw at the drain, soldiering trough it even when he finds a piece of  _ actual bone, what the fuck, Geralt _ . When he washed out the soap and the hair looks like molten silver in his hand, it’s all worth it.

“Does it pass?” he uncorks a small vial and puts it by Great’s face. He sniffs, before grunting something Jaskier decided to take for an affirmative. He pours the oil over the hair, taking care to massage it in where they’re growing back inhumanly fast on the sides and back before rubbing them into the loose strands, one after another.

He ties them up with a string and stands up to slide into the bath himself. Geralt grumbled something in process, opening one eye to glare at him weakly.

“Scoot over if you mind so much.” Jaskier presses his cold foot to Geralt’s knee and giggles when the mighty witcher scurries to a side like a cat sprayed with water.

Not that he'd ever  _ compare Geralt to a cat _ . There is something bad there, judging by his reaction from the single time he made this mistake, something ugly and painful, and he’s not about to go opening up old wounds to sate his own curiosity.

He leans back and stretches with a sigh, warming up.

It’s almost domestic, the way they act during baths, but he doesn’t mind it. Likes it, actually, remembering his own nanny Bella – she was the last servant allowed to  _ coddle him _ , before his parents told him to get by on his own or go around dirty, hungry and without clothes.

He was five.

So maybe he’s overcompensating a little, which isn’t exactly healthy, but Geralt doesn’t seem to mind either and it’s either that or they’ll waste a lot of time by avoiding bathing together as they live side by side for weeks, now even months on end. It’s really easier to just get over small embarrassments and have some peace of mind.

It’s also an excuse to let Jaskier bribe Geralt into letting him check him over, to make sure the witcher isn’t shrugging off a broken rib or an open wound or  _ an actual claw still embedded in his back _ . Gods, the screaming match at that one brought half the tavern down their backs and they were gently not-at-all-pressured to leave after a bath despite paying for the night.

He gives himself until water gets lukewarm to wash out the oils. Geralt is positively dazed by now and he half-drags him back to their room.

He gives him all the time he wants to get dressed, taking care of himself and doing his best to dry his hair, using talc powder to later brush out the oil he couldn’t wash out.

He turns to Geralt and finds him looking trying to flatten hair at the sides of his head with little to no success. Ha bites down a laugh and goes to help, reaching back for the towel before using powder as well.

“Don’t make this face, you can wash it off before sleep.” He jabs a finger at him in a warning. “Now sit still, so I can use get those under control, I have a pomade somewhere-”

“No.” Geralt pulled away, making an ever worse face, and this told Jaskier it was more than just weird dislike.

“Let me brush it at least and explain what poor pomades ever did to you.” He snorted, reaching for a comb.

“Not your fancy pomades, Lambert and his lard-” Geralt stopped and cursed, realising his own blunder as Jaskier smiled.

“Can I assume it’s another witcher?” he asked gently, pushing down an impulse to continue bickering.

Geralt nodded slowly.

“He’s younger. Eskel was ma- trained with me.”

Jaskier frowned at the clearly cut off  _ made _ , wondering what cruel monster would talk in such terms about people.

“Hmm… them and Vesemir, huh?” he prodded, as careful as he could, getting a shaky nod.

So _four wolf witchers_ _left_ , it seems. Four out of three dozen old Greta remembered from her childhood.

He bit his lips to stop questions nagging at his mind.

“Your hair is a disaster, my darling witcher.” He sighed instead. “How does it even grow so fast?”

“If all else fails, blame the mutations.” Geralt shrugged, clearly glad to change the topic.

Jaskier didn’t mind. It stung, a little, but with the tragedy surrounding his family and the cruel foul play he suspected, he understood being wary of getting close to anyone.

He understood it all too well…

He also carefully tucked the topic of mutations away in his mind.

“So what did poor Lambert do to earn such a visceral reaction?” he frowned a little. He knew pomades weren’t to be expected in witcher’s arsenal, but surely they used flax seed, at least, with all the alchemy they cook up when holed up for the winter? “He didn’t melt it to drink, did he?” he asks, shuddering at a memory of his cousin tricking him into downing a cup of oil after their fencing lessons.

He snuck to his room to spray sugar water on his face and left the window open in return. The way his face bloated from mosquito bites was glorious and it was one of the few times he wasn’t caught.

“He’s got curls and hated how they constantly grew back messy. Couldn’t sit still for the life of him and would end up cut all over from the razor, so he just gave up and kept it flat with lard.” Geralt made that face again. “Except he did it while still living in communal rooms, the prick, and wouldn’t wash it out.”

“That doesn’t sound too-”

“He left it in  _ for an entire year _ .”

Jaskier had to pull Geralt’s hair to his nose, trying to focus on the smell of lavender and  _ not gagging _ .

“Bastard washed it before I could actually check, but others from that room swore something finally bred in there.” Geralt shuddered. “He burned his pillow, too.”

Jaskier  _ did _ dry heave then, slapping Geralt on the arm.

“How did you stand it with your senses?”

“Painfully for all involved and from great distances.”

Jaskier breathed slowly in and out, going back to brushing.

“Please remind me to acquaint dear Lambert with hair powders and flax seed, for the benefit of the world.” He mumbled and flinched at his own stupidity. “If I ever meet him, of course. Noticed you witchers keep wide berths from each other?” he turned it into a question absentmindedly.

Geralt hummed.

“Safer this way. Won’t steal each other’s work by accident.” He said finally and Jaskier let him leave it at that. It was a good argument, even accounting for Geralt’s slowly recovering reputations, witchers’ pay was more often than not a disgrace.

He finished brushing his hair and tied it neatly with a ribbon and short plait to keep it firmly in place. He let Geralt sniff and touch at the pomade to his heart's content, after getting a pass using it to flatten the hair on his sides and back, then letting the rest fall back down.

“Here. You almost look presentable!” he pushed a hand mirror-into his face and relished in Geralt’s surprise and the way his eyes got a little more black than gold.

He assumes it works like with cats, since Geralt seemed able to see in whatever light was available and only used that Cat potion for fighting. The kitten he found as a kid would do it, his eyes turning from slits to circles if he brought him smoked fish.

He still remembers freaking out when Puff started blinking all slow and lazy, too, still young enough to run for his parents so the poor thing can get help. They said it’s clearly sick and his father snapped its neck then and there, before calling for a servant to feed it to his hounds.

_ Waste not, want not _ , he said, and Jaskier never wanted anything from them again. Still took him years to stop wasting his feelings.

Soon after he got a book on cats as present, from his cousin, a section about  _ cats blinking slowly to show love _ marked and circled _ , _ because Ferrant lived to torment him. He never picked up an animal again, the birds he put back into trees notwithstanding. All the better, since it meant nothing they could blackmail him with to come home early from Oxenfurt, least a  _ sudden accident _ happens and  _ tragedy _ strikes.

He sighed, brushing fingers through Geralt hair before he stood up to finish preparing himself too.

They went to the main ballroom and were lucky to see Elaina almost immediately, since she was still greeting everybody.

“Julian!” she smiled before he quickly shushed her, glad Geralt seemed more interested in a fancy armour suit by the entryway than the talk. “Right, Jaskier.” She smiled at him indulgently and then nodded at the witcher as he came closer. “And Geralt of Rivia, I assume?”

“Yes, my lady.” Geralt bowed curtly, but before he could do much else, they were interrupted.

“Will you move, bard? We don’t all get paid to stand about looking- well, I suppose we can call it  _ decent enough _ to not make one look away.” Men behind them chided, all proper tones and inflection and Jaskier turned around with bright smile and murder in his eyes.

“Lord Arthur, so good to see you again!” he waved at his daughter, Arthur hissing a furious  _ Anette! _ To make her stop. So that’s her name, good thing he got it without prodding. it’s always funnier to use names rather than titles,  _ especially _ when he knows the latter.

The girl was styled nicely, but with watery kohl that would quickly flake away and dressed in a bright gown much too heavy for the season, most probably a leftover changed here and there to match the current style of cut and stitch. One ribbon was already fraying, honestly, did her father even try?

“Last I remember, I was well enough to chaperone sweet Anette here?” his smile got harper. “Right, silly of me, you didn’t actually pay me then.” He tilted his head. “Not in full, that is.” He corrected himself, knowing full well it would help very little to fix the jab made within the earshot of all the ladies and girls that were still waiting to be greeted.

He could almost see the gossip spinning in the air, ready to tie around Arthur’s neck like proverbial noose.

Arthur’s face got deliciously red in anger.

“You insolent-!”

“Lord Arthur.” Countess de Stael stepped behind Jaskier, arms folded perfectly on her plump stomach. “Anette, dear, so good to see you growing up so nicely! Those ribbons really bring out your eyes.” she smiled at the girl and then motioned sharply at the entryway, till they both went along. “So sorry, my sweet, I will have a talk with him about proper compensation.” She frowned.

“No need, this here is the best payment I could ask for.” Jaskier winked and then sneaked an arm around Geralt’s, hoping he would let himself be pulled into the ballroom.

He did, thank all the gods.

“You worked for him?”

Jaskier nodded, picking up a glass of wine from a servant. It’s the only one he can get, since he’s supposed to actually perform, his lute ready by the space made for the bards where a few were already playing a slow tune as people mingled around.

“Why?” Geralt grabbed him by the arm and Jaskier wanted to coo at the worry in his voice.

“Remember all that- striga mess?” he reminded him. “When I finally heard you were alive and safe, I had to find some way to get into the feast. As luck would have it, Arthur was willing enough to take me in exchange of enduring his utter lack of subtlety.” He shrugged and took a sip of the wine.

Geralt was still frowning, even more in fact. He pulled Jaskier to an emptier space between two tables, standing in a way that hid him from view. He moved his jaw a few times, before finally speaking.

“I didn’t think- no, didn’t  _ expect _ you. To worry, if I’m fine.” He actually bit his lip and Jaskier wouldn’t help reaching out to put hands to his cheeks. “Not back then-”

“It’s fine. We’ve got through this little issue, right?” he reminded him softly. “It’s all good now, darling witcher, so let’s go scandalize some nobles.”

Geralt nodded sharply, taking a deep breath before he moved back.

Jaskier didn’t actually scandalize too many people, because it took no time at all before someone recognized Geralt and then demands for  _ that song _ started coming in. Jaskier gladly obliged, happy to keep up his witcher’s good reputation, even if he mourned leaving Geralt alone so soon.

Geralt and his barely touched glass of wine both, actually.

Performances dragged on, one bard then another asking him to join in and, well, Jaskier was an artist at heart and loved making people happy, especially when he saw Arthur stewing in clear displeasure. It also meant there was no chance of him to meet someone he knew as a young heir, thus assuring Geralt didn’t figure out his status.

The only downside was that when he finally broke away from the musicians, the witcher was nowhere to be found. Jaskier wondered briefly if he should be worried, but then just shrugged and went for some wine, because his throat was already killing him. It was too hot this summer, honestly, too hot and dry for performance!

He slinked away to a small balcony with a fifth glass of wine, or maybe sixth, doesn’t really matter. He relished the cold wind and the dark sky, leaning up to watch the stars.

“Hiding already?”

Jaskier jumped in place, cursing as wine spilled at his hand and threw Geralt a slightly drunken glare before putting the glass on the railing to lick his hand clean.

Waste no, want not, right?

“Not hiding. Taking a break. What about you?”

Geralt shrugged.

“I nodded at all the nice compliments and then kept to the shadows. Balls aren’t really my thing.” He reached for something and then for Jaskier's hand, putting it in.

Jaskier looked down at the small flute, hand-carved and still smooth to the touch, and then burst into drunken giggles.

“D-did you- whole p-party-?”

Geralt’s indignant face only makes his fit worse, leaving him out of breath and with tears in his eyes when he finally calms down, smile still stretching his lips.

“It’s lovely, darling.” Jaskier drawled and put the flute up to his lips to make a few sounds, holding the last note for a while. “Now go have no fun or something. Continue boring at the party.” He shoved him lightly and went back to the railing, swaying slightly.

Geralt laughed, reminded him where their room was and left.

Jaskier finished the wine, turning the flute in his hands.

He put it to his lips and blew again, easily finding a pleasant note and stretching it.

Then people down on the ground hollered and whistled, making him hide behind a railing before he understood why. He waits with a pounding heart, face burning, but nobody finds him and he’s-

He’s  _ glad _ , but why is he so sad, too? He didn’t  _ want _ to be caught- be  _ caught _ -

The flute. Gods, the flute…

He hid because he’s  _ alone _ and he’s sad because he played it, but he’s still alone.

He’s  _ all alone _ and it’s  _ wrong _ and that’s because-

Cause he wanted-

He wants-

Because  _ Geralt _ gave him the flute and Elaina made it clear last winter she’s still not one for his puppy love,  _ as sweet as it is, _ to quote her words, and he wanted the witcher to hear him and come because-

Oh, he  _ wanted _ Geralt to find him.

Because he loves him.

_ Oh no. _

He feels his heart lurch, then his stomach. He vomits into some potted plants, flute still clutched in his hand.

He doesn’t even try pretending it’s because of the wine.


	16. In which Jaskier deals.

Jaskier curses, snatching his hand back from where he was rummaging through his bag. He could already feel his finger going numb and he sighed, resigning himself to finishing the song he was working on another day. He looked at the bag with pure contempt and unceremoniously turned it over, all the contents falling to the floor, and cursed again at the mess.

He picked up the loose scurver needles and rolled a piece of thick cotton around them, before tying it up properly with a leather strap. How did it even get loose? Not that it was  _ the only _ danger there.

There were glass jars with venom glands from some weird spider-crab and a piece of its shell as big as both his palms. A jaw filled with razor-sharp teeth from another monster, hooked talons from one more, a few ruined pieces of silver weapons that came from a mound of weaponry stuck together and moving as if alive. A tail-end of some lizard that looked close enough to the mace to be mistaken for it. The most innocent thing was a bundle of feathers in bright colours, except the ends were waxed because they'd release poison if you got poked by them!

Jaskier sighed, wondering when his personal bag became his witcher's trash-bin and flinched at his own thoughts, looking around as if Geralt would materialize and read his mind.

His sudden  _ revelation _ didn’t change much. He suspects he was falling for Geralt since such a long time ago, if not since the first he saw him, that he cannot even go back to normal behaviour since everything was always different with them.

That and spending Elaina’s ball drunk off his ass also helped, probably. Letting all the emotions out and the likes. He made sure to tip the poor maid that was sent to watch over him for the two days he spent inebriated.

Geralt clearly knew something happened, but seemed to think it had to do with nobles and their stupidity. Jaskier wasn’t gonna correct him. Not when it served him so well.

He’d rather admit to his viscount blood than to being in love with a witcher who was barely past the stage of them being friends. Not even that, more like acquaintances. If even that.

Jaskier sighed and put away all the monster stuff in one part of the bag, then set out to sort out the rest. He held up the hairpin with lilies crossing a blade before putting it away quickly. Not time for melancholy, Geralt was out and should be back sooner than later.

The bag still ends up much heavier than he’d like.

It’s not that he can throw away anything in there – it’s either his personal stuff he cannot do without or- well. Or the monster stuff, and those were all given to him by Geralt, wherein lies his problem.

He can’t get rid of them. They’re special, even if the witcher seemed to just throw anything useful his way and it might still turn out some he was only meant to keep them safe because Geralt’s potion bag is so ridiculously small it boggles the mind. Jaskier bought him a bigger one himself, threatening to pour out his potions if he doesn’t start using it, but all it did was give him an excuse to go after more new weird things and-

His head snapped to the door when someone barged in.

“You his bard?” a man asked, looking grim. “That witcher we sent out?”

Jaskier nodded, feeling blood freeze in his veins.

“They brought him back to the mage. Better hurry.”

Jaskier was up and running past the man before he even finished the first sentence, dread pooling heavily in his stomach. The hunt was supposed to be easy, Geralt knew it was kelpie before they even reached the town, so what happened?

He ground his teeth, running along the main road until he left the town, looking for the trail to mage’s house. Old Aman was almost ancient and offered payment for kelpie’s mane, though Jaskier noticed Geralt looking annoyed at it.

They rarely dealt with mages, his witcher usually avoided them like a plague if he was honest…

“Where is he?!” he barged into the small house and looked around frantically.

He felt his heart drop to the floor as he saw Geralt, laid down on a stone slab of a table and half-naked, pale as death with black veins cutting through him like wounds and an actual one bleeding sluggishly on his stomach – patch of his skin was missing, the size of Jaskier’s palm, the edges jagged and uneven, white tiny pieces of something stuck there still.

He swallows bile when he notices murky liquid seeping out over the flesh, the smell of vomit fresh in the air.

“-said move!” Aman shoved him to the side and marched stiffly to the table.

Jaskier watched frozen in place as the mage stitched a tear in Geralt’s stomach, muttering whenever what had to be his intestines shifted at the worst times. He felt stuck, like in a nightmare when you know you are dreaming, but nothing can make you wake up, forcing you to watch the worst things imaginable with no relief.

Geralt can’t die. Not ever, at all, but especially not now when he finally knows what he feels!

Aman was saying something, the words buzzing uselessly in his ears. Jaskier shook his head and took a gasping breath, trying to force his brain into working.

“-still bleed out, but he’s got more toxins than blood in his veins.” Aman looked at him, calculating.

“-toxin.” Jaskier repeated weakly and clutched his hands. He hissed when his palm stung and only then noticed he still kept hold of his bed as he ran here. The buckle stabbed into his palm and he was bleeding, but it barely registered.

He remembered one of the jobs, when Geralt brought some weird bag of malformed leeches. Blood-zygote-something, he said, they suck the blood to feed on nutrients, but as larvae don’t control how much. So they can be used to deal with poison - as long as there are means to replenish the blood at hand.

And they didn’t die this young, either, just slept till something came across them to be sucked dry.

“Wait!” he started looking through the bag, cursing when he cut himself here and there, glass containers sliding from his fingers because of blood. “Here! Those, you can use those, right? A-and some spell, mages got them for all manner of shit, j-just to stop bleeding out, right?” he showed off a jar with black little leeches, hibernating in slime. The bag fell to the ground with a thud and Jaskier couldn’t care less.

“I might help.” Aman said slowly, but he wasn’t looking at the leeches or even Jaskier, but at the little jars with poison glands that rolled out of the bag. “It’s a tricky spell, you see. I’m old and can’t really do it anymore, unless-“

“Take what you need!” Jaskier snapped, throwing the bag at the small table, contents spilling out. He reached to pick the jars up and threw them there as well. “Take everything, but just  _ heal him! _ ” he screamed.

Things happened quicker then. Aman took the poison from the glands and then mixed it with other stuff, bright fumes and strange smells going off. He left it to simmer as he roused the leeches up, wringing out a cloth Geralt bleed through to get them going. Then he reached for the concoction, sifting it into a cup, a clear liquid coming out to his delight.

Jaskier couldn’t care less if he was to bathe in new-borns’ blood, as long as it saved Geralt who breathed slower and slower with every moment.

“Still risky, you must know.” He said and breathed in the fumes coming off from the cup, his eyes shining for a moment. “Need him to be sucked almost dry before casting the spell, and with witcher heart beating so slow it might kill him before magic takes-”

“Do your job. He’ll live.” Jaskier shook his head, standing by Geralt’s side and clutching at his palm.

Geralt won’t die, cannot die before him. He’s the mortal man, Geralt is the mighty witcher.

He will not die.

Aman puts the leeches to the inside of Geralt’s thighs, clothes cut to give access, then he downs the contents of the cup. Magic swirls in the air and Aman chants some things, sounds buzzing in Jaskier’s ears without purpose. He smiles a bit at the melodious rhythm to it all, but it’s brief before all his attention is on Geralt. Jaskier counts every weak beat of Geralt’s pulse, watching the blood that still slowly seeps out from the wound getting less sticky and more red, not the brownish ooze it was before.

Spell ends, Amon collapsing onto a chair exhausted. Jaskier picks away the leeches, having to rip one away when it latched onto the puncture in his hand. He puts down a soaked rag onto Geralt’s stomach as told and sits by his side.

Then it is all waiting. Torturous waiting, watching black lines on Geralt’s skin receding at a glacial pace, his heartbeat rising even slower. The hourly changes of the rag, lest it dried stuck to organs, helped him measure as the day went by, late afternoon passing into night and then morning before last of the black vanished from around Geralt’s eyes. Jaskier pried one open for a moment, relieved to see whites and a ring of gold there.

Aman brought him a water pitcher with a cup and a bowl of mash, but then went to rest again. The hours stretched further, sun rising up in the sky only to fall down again, the moon replacing it and shining through the window.

That’s when Geralt moved, hand twitching in Jaskier’s grasp. He started to babble then, without control, hoping just his voice will be enough to keep witcher calm when he comes to himself, so he won’t try and move.

“…for a kelpie, no idea what fucked up, but it’s fine now, all is fine and you’ll live and be fine, Geralt, I swear to you-”

“Aeschna,” Geralt mumbled, barely above whisper, but Jaskier had his eyes glued to his face since his first twitch. He quickly cut himself off. “Got kelpie before me- and me, then- fuck!” Geralt shuddered and Jaskier realised he must’ve gotten nothing for the pain. Ha hates Aman, even as the logical part of bit mind realises it was more important to keep Geralt alive and not comfortable.

“D-don’t move!” he stuttered and turned around, looking for his bag and then for the tied bundle.

“You don’t say.” Geralt hissed out through clenched teeth, eyes squeezed shut.

Jaskier picked up a few of the spines and then lifted the fabric covering Geralt’s wound. He forced himself to poke him, around the wound, as lightly as possible while still making sure the dark tip went in completely to release the paralytic.

For a terrifying moment Jaskier thought it wouldn’t help, as Geralt laid tense and breathing through his teeth, but then he shuddered before relaxing against the stone.

“Good you got ‘em.” Geralt slurred a little and blinked slowly, his pupils still blown wide. “Where-?”

“Aman’s.” Jaskier supplied quickly, reaching to grab Geralt’s hand again. He stroked cold skin with his thumb. “Someone found and dragged you here, suppose, didn’t really listen.” He shudders at the memory.

He hoped their things were fine in the room, Rina was such a sweet old lady to offer it to them.

Geralt hummed, looking around still, his nose twitching as he probably got assaulted by every smell around. Jaskier watched over as he made faces, smiling like a fool at every little movement his witcher made.

Dead don’t move after all. They just lay motionless before you, a cruel echo of the soul lost forever.

“I would’ve lived.” Geralt snorted, turning his head. “No need to barter with mages.”

Jaskier blinked at his tone, breathing a few times to calm himself and start thinking more clearly. Geralt never liked mages, but now he looked offended and disappointed, if not outright hurt…

Jaskier looked around too, trying to see what was different from the time they came here to ask for info about local monster populations, but nothing jumped out that badly, maybe except-

Oh, right, his bag spilling over the counter, leeches in a bowl and empty glass jars, the cup Aman drunk from still letting off wisps of purple smoke, the blue of the glass looking a little weird too, now that he looked at it closer.

Fuck, he did barter with a mage, using Geralt’s gifts to him at that. Who would’ve known he’d miss the way his witcher seemed unbothered by the world around him?

Jaskier looked him over, biting his lip, and then stood up to cover his laceration again, trying not to stop at the wounded noise that was torn from Geralt’s throat, surprising them both equally.

“I’d barter all I own for you.” Jaskier sat by Geralt’s side again and grasped his hand. “I’d give up my life and sell my soul to whoever was willing to accept such a worthless reward for saving your life.” He took a shaky breath, forcing himself to stop before he said too much, shaken by the way Geralt looked at him as if he was a temple visitor seeing its god in the flesh. “You’re my friend, Geralt. The best one, the only true one I ever had. You’re worth  _ everything _ .” He rubbed at his eyes, sniffling, but tried his best not to completely break apart.

Later. He can cry his broken heart out later, when Geralt’s better. Not now.

“Yours too, then.” Geralt twisted his hand to hold his palm back, still looking at him, his eyes barely holding any gold around the wide pupil. “No selling your body or soul.” He grimaced. “Can’t go and hunt myself a new friend like I can spider crabs or bloedzuigers.”

Jaskier froze, blinking away tears before laughing out loud.

“Trust you to almost  _ die _ before I get to hear you call me a friend.” He chuckled and sat more comfortably, still stroking Geralt’s palm. He looked over the cup again, watching the fumes swirl. “He made something, from that toxin glands. Know what it is?”

Geralt made the same face as earlier.

“Spider crab toxins make a tonic. Boosts your magic, for a spell or two, then hooks you up worse than Fisstech.”

Jaskier made a face at that too.  Well, no matter. As long as the junkie mage did his job Jaskier didn’t care about the methods.

“Glass is unbreakable.” Geralt added suddenly, the hurt, offended look back on his face, and Jaskier laughed again.

“Is that why they survived all the throwing around?”

“How  _ did you _ think my potions don’t break in a saddle bag?”

“- _ ooh _ .” Jaskier smiled and stood up to throw his things back into the bag, getting the jars too after he washed them out first.

The way Geralt seemed to preen at it was almost as good as seeing him wake up again.


	17. In which Geralt becomes a monster.

For all the summer heat, the autumns hit with a downpour. A mudslide trapped Jaskier and Geralt in a small mountainside and they spent a day trying not to get washed down. They could barely improvise a shelter, huddling by a patch of ground that was lifted when a tree fell, its roots ripping the earth open.

It rained so much that when it finally stopped, the roots were washed clean.

“I-I h-ha-hate ra-rain.” Jaskier couldn’t stop shivering, swaying on Roache’s saddle. He couldn’t force his fingers to work and grab anything, so he just hoped to keep them from getting frostbite under his armpits.

Geralt said something and patted his leg, but he couldn’t even hear him through the static in his ears, the pounding in his head feeling as if someone was bashing it over with a cane, repeatedly. Only a cane wouldn’t hurt from the inside and wouldn’t get worse if he tried opening his eyes.

Dark was nice. It was calmer and soft and so nice to just fall into and sleep, sleep it all away and-

He groaned when he was lurched painfully in place.

“Stay up!” Geralt barked at him, before Jaskier felt something move above his head. He whined when it brushed his hair, trying to shy away from whatever it was. It felt like iron burning into his skull with the barest of touches as far as he was concerned!

He squeezed his eyes, happy to at least not be shaking anymore. His fingers still couldn’t close around anything, feeling like when he was a kid and put them into wax and then tried touching something. Except now it felt like he did it a hundred times.

He sniffled, making a face when his throat hurt as he swallowed and tried to fall into the dark again.

Something pressed to his back, a hard line that wouldn’t let him fall and he whined again.

“Just a little longer, come on.” Someone talked to him, but it cut into his head like knives and he pushed to the side to try and escape it.

The world shifted, tilted and then he finally fell into the dark amidst a panicked curse. He wasn’t sure who said it.

He gagged violently, turning to a side to spit bile. Something – someone pushed his hair back and he tried looking around, but it was too dark, he couldn’t see anything and every breath burned in his throat and he couldn’t use his nose-

“Open your eyes, breath through your mouth.”

Jaskier forced himself to focus and then finally blinked his eyes open, making a noise when he felt they were almost crusted over. He reached to rub it away and then promptly screamed as soon as pressed his finger to his face.

“Shit. Here!” voice was back and his eyes were closed again, before something wet and gloriously cold wiped at them. Not the most gentle touch, making his face hurt just as the press of his fingers did, but Jaskier would sell out his family for a cup of ice…

Ice… white, he saw white before and the voice was talking again but a buzzing in his ears wouldn’t let down-

“Helalt…?” he tried to get out and bit his tongue when it refused to move as he wanted it too.

“Yes, I’m here, now stop kicking off the fur.” The voice was still fuzzy, like Jasker got cotton in his ears, but it was Geralt. He trusted Geralt, so he tried to focus on his body and did realize his legs were moving around. He stilled them with some effort, but quickly realized why he was trashing.

It was hot, he was burning, why was he covered at all!

He barely heard his own whine, trying to move on wherever he laid down. It was wet and stiff and stuck to him in the worst way and-

“Here.” Someone grabbed him, Geralt grabbed him by the arm and turned him to his side. Jaskier was about to protest when something heavenly cold landed on his forehead and hair.

He moaned loud enough to make his throat protest, turning the sound into something between groan and whine before getting into a choking fit that left him dizzy with how little air he could suck in between choking on it.

“Shh, come on. I’ll make it better.” Geralt patted his arm, another cool wetness settling on Jaskier neck, fingers rubbing at his back. He was nice, so nice and so gentle and his voice felt so soft when it settled down into a quiet shushing amidst splashing of water. The cold on his face and neck never went more than lukewarm before it was replaced.

Oh, how he loved this man…

He made a small, inquisitive sound when hen he was held in place and then  _ the torture  _ started.

Water flowed into his nose and he retched, gagging on air and barely able to breath, bile and saliva dripping down his mouth. It burned, it pushed in and burned and he was drowning, water splashing within his head and salt burning at the back of his throat.

Something buzzed painfully loud in the air and he was back in safety of the darkness.

The cycle was set. He was allowed the sweet relief of sleep broken by choking fits that left his blurry vision swimming, but only between session of pure torture. He couldn’t even appreciate the cold relief when he felt like drowning with every breath.

The first time he felt more lucid, it was only to turn to his side and vomit what felt like slime full of harder chunks, the very feel of it pushing up his sore throat provoking more retching until his throat was just clamping down with not even bile coming up, suffocating him.

Something buzzed again and he sucked in a gulp of air, collapsing onto what he assumed was the bed.

It was wet and cold and absolutely reeked, for the brief moment he could breathe through his nose and feel anything before it felt like something plugged it up again.

He slowly came to himself, first aware of the hand keeping his hair back. He blinked slowly, seeing more shapes than clear lines through a haze, but it was better than nothing. There was a sea of brown blending together and one contrasting splash of white close by he easily recognized, now that his brain went from burning with fever to slowly simmering.

“Mons’el.” He accused weakly, voice ruined and eyes wet. “Bah, o’hul mons’el!” he tried again, slapping blindly at vaguely Geralt-shaped lump and whined when he missed and his wrist his the edge of the bed with a jolt of pain.

“Yes, I’m so awful for keeping you alive.” Geralt snorted and put his hand back. “Sleep.” He added, voice feeling like a visceral command and moments later Jaskier was falling back into blissful darkness.

It began a new cycle. No more tortures, but instead Jaskier now woke up to both coughing fits and vomiting phlegm. Geralt was always there, pushing him to drink water before he fell asleep again.

On day five, as Geralt was now telling him whenever it was a new morning, Jaskier was able to actually sit up for the first time. He no longer felt like he was cooking from inside out and could breathe for at least a little while between coughing.

On day five vomiting phlegm also lost its place as the worst feeling in the Continent. The cartilage-like clumps suddenly sliding down his throat with random breaths were even worse.

So Jaskier felt excused in the way he glared at everything in sight, grumbling at everything demanded of him and refusing to cooperate, mumbling about being drowned in salt every time Geralt tried to convince him.

Geralt clearly disagreed and after two days of all barely getting him to drink at most, he finally snapped.

“Your fever wouldn’t stop for days and when I got back from the town you were choking, I had to do  _ something! _ I don’t care you didn’t like it”

Jaskier blinked through the fuzziness that wouldn’t leave the edges of his sight and for the first time looked at Geralt properly.

His hair was a matted mess tied up in a tangled bun. He was in light clothes, but they looked worn to hell, as if he didn’t change since they came here. For the first time Jaskier was sure he saw the skin around his eyes being dark without the potion, as if he didn't sleep either.

Great, now he felt miserable and was sick _ and _ hated himself.

“Zilly wishel.” He mumbled, his tongue still not quite cooperating yet, burned from the vomit and numb from coughing and hacking up. “I’mma ‘ate you ‘ow, ‘ove you all ove’ ‘gan ‘atel.” He forced out, his throat throbbing with each choked out letter so he cut all the unnecessary ones.

Geralt looked startled, for a moment, before sinking down to lean against the bed with a sigh.

“It was all I could do.” He said, calmer. “Salt-water flush to clean your sinuses. Only town around was flooded and I was lucky to get water and some goods at all.”

Jaskier hummed quietly and slowly squirmed his way down the bed, so he could lean his forehead against Geralt’s arm that was clutching the bed frame. He grumbled till the witcher pulled up his sleeve, sighing when he finally felt the cool skin against his own.

“Won’ cash?

Geralt chuckled at that and brushed hair back from his face.

“No. Witcher’s immunity is handy.”

Jaskier hummed again and quickly fell asleep again.

Three days later the fever went away completely and he was moved to a chair as Geralt changed the bedding. Jaskier was almost sure he wasn’t actually breathing as he did it and hoped he was too sick to blush.

He made himself busy looking around, his sight finally back to what it should be as well. The place was tiny, someone’s hunting shack judging by the stack of antlers and old, badly made furs lying about.

The fire was always roaring, sparked back to life with a wave of Geralt’s hand and fresh wood whenever it started dying down. There was a wide pan with boiling water, refilled constantly to keep bubbling with one of five barrels standing by the wall. It kept the room as misty as a bathhouse and provided a steady supply of warm water for him to drink. By the bed there was the bucket Jaskier was free to spit or retch into and a metal bottle he could use to relieve himself.

It was- a little overwhelming, to see how much Geralt cared for him in what must’ve been a week if not two of some awful sickness. It made his heart melt and tried to lure it into hoping that his witcher just might agree if he tried to get together with him.

He stubbornly abandoned this train of thoughts whenever he caught himself getting too close to actually falling for it.

How different was it, from him sitting by his side for a month till the hole in his stomach scarred over? No different at all and Geralt saw it as a care of friend. No reason to mess things up.

“You should start eating again.” Geralt said as Jaskier all but collapsed onto the remade bed. “Fancy anything special? It’ll help if you like it even if you still won’t taste much.”

Jaskier nodded, turning to his side and suddenly felt a pang of nostalgia.

“Tomato sauce and mash with horseradish.” He mumbled before he could stop himself. “Garlic and ginger.”

Geralt gave him a look, but then only nodded.

“Childhood treat?” he asked, clearly disbelieving and Jaskier didn’t blame him.

“Kinda.”

He wasn’t  _ right _ , he just wasn’t wrong either, because it was complicated.

What he listed wasn’t  _ comfort _ food, exactly. It was- a comfort  _ of routine _ , if he was to define it.

Tomato paste eased his stomach so he wouldn’t waste food on vomiting. Horseradish was added to use less potatoes. When he wouldn’t eat, it easily got fed to livestock. Garlic and ginger was so nobody would get close enough to catch whatever he had. It was his parents’ way of making his sickness cost the least and be least disruptive – that their methods actually helped him was just a happenstance.

Still, after a lifetime of eating it all when sick it became a small comfort. He got used to it and now, stripped raw due to sickness and exhaustion, he let out more that he probably should’ve.

He watched Geralt try to somehow keep the water-pan boiling while also setting a pot with peeled potatoes to cook. It was so domestic and so over the top that Jaskier could only smile, curled up in fresh clothes and sheets. He wouldn’t feel worse if the room got less misty for a little bit, but Geralt still stood there, holding the pan in place so it won’t fall down, just so the other pot would fit.

Witcher shared his mashed diet, supplying his own portions with roasted meat and that shouldn’t be so heart-warming either, but here Jaskier was, melting completely.

The days of fever came back to him slowly, like he was wiping grime from a book and trying to decipher blurring letters. That’s how he found himself choking on water one evening, as he waited for Geralt to finish food.

“You okay?” Geralt threw him a handkerchief and Jaskier wiped himself dry, still cringing.

“I called you a monster.” He remembered, not able to look up. “I-I’m so sorry, I don’t-”

“You almost suffocated from dry-heaving.” Geralt interrupted him. “I figured out you weren’t serious.”

“I’m still sorry.” Jaskier insisted and risked looking up. Geralt was standing by the table, finishing dinner, but he still felt warm at the tiny, almost unnoticeable way witcher seemed to lose a bit of tension from his shoulders.

He cannot ever allow himself such a lapse again.

“I should apologize, too.” He turned around and gave Jaskier a bowl full of mash.

As always it was glowing orange from turmeric, pungent with garlic and dripping with fat. At least since today he got some shredded meat mixed in as well. He was glad his sense of taste and smell came back so slowly, letting him get used to it, reminding himself that at least it slid down his throat almost on its own when his stomach tried to rebel. Warm water got ginger, lemon and honey added now too.

He vowed to repay Geralt for the money it all must’ve cost, especially since the town was flooded and supplies would be scarce.

“For what?” he forced himself to go back to the topic at hand and picked up a spoon to blow at the food before eating.

“I used Axii on you.” Geralt sat by Jaskier’s bed on the floor, all stiff muscles and folded hands, head turned down. “To make you sleep and stop the dry-heaving, nothing else,  _ I swear _ , but it was still a violation of your trust.”

Jaskier licked his spoon clean.

“Might wanna explain what’s this axe-thing first.” He said and the genuine, startled surprise Geralt showed almost threw him into a laughing fit.

_ Almost _ . He choked out one sound, his throat protesting painfully and he forced himself to calm down.

While the lecture on the Signs was nice and cleared up some assumptions he made about the way elements bent to Geralt’s will, it also made him sad. This pure shock meant he truly never dealt with humans long enough to take into consideration someone might be unaware of his witcher's abilities…

Eating meant he got some strength back, as well as certain bodily functions. There was no bathroom to speak of, so Jaskier had to do with Geralt wiping his with a rag before he took over doing it himself. At least his witcher got some mercy and burned out a hole in a chair to put a bucket under it in lieu of lavatory, so Jaskier was spared the last bits of his dignity.

It also meant it took a few more days before Jaskier felt well enough to get Geralt to agree they should leave. They were packing and Geralt mentioned he already told the shack’s owner they were leaving when he went for last shopping and it suddenly hit Jaskier he had no idea where they were. Still in Sodden, he assumed, since they were circling the Mahakam mountains to reach Lyria for a rich contract Geralt heard about, but that was all he was sure of.

“Where are we?” he asked, looking around as soon as they moved, brushing his fingers through Roache’s mane.

Geralt slapped his thigh with  _ a look _ so he grabbed the saddle with a sigh.

“How long will you baby me?” he grumbled.

“Until your clothes fit you again.” Geralt snapped back and Jaskier flinched, looking at the way a sleeve hung loose around his arm.

Point taken, the fever did a number on him. He can do with some overprotecting.

“So where are we?”

“Back near Jaruga.”

“Oh… didn’t you have business in Riedbrune?” Jaskier frowned, feeling guilt pool in his stomach.

“I planned to go there, but the lakes flooded and then your fever…” he shrugged, holding onto Roaches reigns. “Getting you safe was more important, they bloom every decade.”

Jaskier only frowned more, trying to think of anything to make it up to the witcher, but there was nothing to do. Short of buying the flower he wanted from a mage, which would cost a fortune or a favour from Geralt which was out of the question.

“Ysgith swamps are close, right?” he smiled hesitantly. “We can stop by them and get stuff to sell, when we reach Lyria.”

Geralt hummed, thinking for a while.

“There are a lot of creatures there. Some spider crabs, too.” He smiled a little.

“It’s decided, then!” Jaskier clapped his hands before scrambling to hold the saddle before Geralt decided to slap him again. “Who knows when I will need to bribe an old mage with drugs again?”

For a while he just listened as Geralt described all manner of monsters he expected to be close to Ysgith, blatantly lecturing Jaskier so he will keep away from them when he leaves him in the camp. He didn’t actually mind, glad to see Geralt in his element, smiling as he almost glowed when talking about some swamp moss that was priceless for a healing potion he’s gonna look for, since the full moon is close enough to make it fluorescent as it does when most potent.

It was when they made camp and Jaskier got bundled in new blankets and a coat, that he noticed the latter was completely new.

Right, the one from Maribor was probably ruined from the rain. He curled around himself at the stabbing pain, but shook his head when Geralt tried to look for something more to wrap round him.

“What town was it?” Jaskier looked over the stitching at the sleeve. “I don’t recognize them…”

“Pocher. They needed money to get repair supplies so they didn’t ever haggle much.”

Jaskier nodded, frowning as the word seemed familiar enough, but he couldn’t really remember it.

It wasn’t until he was heating up the last of his meat-potato mash by the fire that he remembered.

He wasn’t even phased by stumbling into courtship by accident again.

He was shocked to know it was him this time and to realize what exactly he did.

Tomatoes, horseradish and ginger. Add rhubarb and he’d have all the ingredients he’d use when gently refusing a courtship in Pocher. Just what he needed.

He stirred his food before forcing himself to eat it, suddenly having lost all appetite.

Geralt probably wouldn’t know, which meant he just did it to make him feel better, or he did and Jaskier just bashed him over the head with rejection of feelings he probably didn’t even harbour.

At least he can always blame it on the fever.


	18. In which Jaskier sells out.

Jaskier was almost back to himself by the time they reached Scala. He almost worried about deer population, with the four bucks Geralt managed to make them finish off in the few days they travelled. They passed through the fort to sell some of the spoils from Ysgith, the same thing he did in Spalla, so they could march north with little stopping.

Jaskier watched Geralt plan their way carefully, trying to curb his curiosity, but not really able to.

“I wanna to stop by Ambra.” He said as they camped.

Geralt looked up from sharpening his sword.

“I need something.” Jaskier shrugged, strumming his lute innocently. It was a slow going to get his voice back completely, but his witcher was surprisingly accommodating, just stalking off to hunt whenever Jaskier's constant singing and getting back in tune got too much.

It was so sweet it made Jaskier’s heart break every time.

“Why didn’t you get it in Spalla or Scala?” Geralt grumbled, clearly not happy to make a detour.

“Why did you avoid Rivia, o great White Wolf?” Jaskier threw back and looked up when no quip followed. “Geralt?” he put the lute down and scuttled closer to him, hoping the sharp edge of a rock he felt didn’t cut his pants. “If you fear they-”

“It’s a lie.” Geralt interrupted him, hands still, one clutching the handle of the sword and the other the whetstone, both of them shaking a bit.

“So it’s another one of those talks?” Jaskier leaned against him and sneaked his hands to Geralt’s, scratching till he annoyed him into loosening them. He put the whetstone away as the witcher sheathed his sword.

Then Jaskier waited, reaching a hand to brush through Geralt’s hair. It worked less outside the bath, but still helped him relax.

“I’m a witcher.” Geralt spoke up slowly, brows furrowed as if he wasn’t sure how to dress whatever the issue was into words. “I’m from Kaer Morhen, like every wolf witcher ever was.  _ Of Rivia _ ’s just a lie.”

Jaskier let out a breath and bit his lip.

“Is your name real?” he asked finally.

Geralt shook his head and shrugged at once, tensing. Jaskier slid his hand lower, rubbing between his shoulders until his witcher breathed out deeply, relaxing again.

“ _ Just _ the name.”

“Did you get to choose it?”

At this, Geralt  _ froze _ and looked away, which confused Jaskier a little. He wasn’t tense, this was more as if he was-  _ embarrassed _ ?

“Hey!” Geralt flinched when Jaskier grabbed him by the chin, but let him turn his face. He was not-blushing again, Jaskier was sure of it.

“This wasn’t your  _ first _ choice, was it?” Jaskier grinned and Geralt’s eyes widened a bit, pupils shrinking. “What did you want it to be then?”

Geralt pushed him away and refused to answer, which only made Jaskier push more and more.

“Come on, now you  _ have  _ to tell! I’ll die of curiosity otherwise and what will you do then, hmm?” he pushed against Geralt’s arm.

“Throw you to the curb and not make silly detours.” He shoved him back and Jaskier let himself fall to the ground with a laugh.

He brushed his fingers through the grass, hesitating, before he decided:  _ to hell with it _ .

“Well, mine’s not real either. We can fake it out together!” he said with fittingly false cheer, doing his best not to tense and probably only making it more obvious.

Geralt gave him a confused look.

“I know.”

Jaskier stuck his tongue at him.

“It’s a perfectly good stage name, I’ll have you know! Just because-”

“It’s Julian, right?” Geralt interrupted him.

Jaskier gaped at him, before throwing a fistful of grass at him.

“ _ Who _ told you and  _ when _ , because I need to decide how much you owe me, you secretive bastard!” he kicked at him weakly, but Geralt just caught his ankle to put it down.

“That lady, countess? Heard her calling you that.” He shrugged.

Jaskier wondered if he should feel relieved, since it let him keep his full identity a secret, but then he thought of Geralt not-blushing and let his heart sway him.

“It is.” He admitted, looking at the darkening sky. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, future Viscount de Lettenhove and a disgrace to the whole of Kerack, if dear Ferrant’s letter is to be believed.” He sighed, picking nervously at the grass again.

He was glad Elaina gave him the letter, at least he had something to focus on when his heart was breaking at her summer ball.

There was a bit of silence and then a curse.

“Roger.” Geralt said and gave a long-suffering sigh. “Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde. I fancied myself a knight, so wanted a name to match. Vesemir knew better, so – Rivia.”

Jaskier’s incredulous laugh died in his throat and he sat up to wrap his arms around his witcher, face hiding in his shoulder.

“I imagined my family loved me once, too. We all make mistakes as kids.” He said neutrally and then let Geralt have his silence, stroking his arm absentmindedly. Then he chuckled. “You even learned the accent.”

Geralt shrugged, pushing him off a while later to go back to his work.

Jaskier fell on the grass by his side, feeling lighter than he had in ages. He still feared, a little, that Geralt will feel betrayed, but he underestimated him. He should really stop doing that…

They made the damn detour to Ambra, Geralt cheering up a little when he saw stalls full of precious stones, gems, minerals and metals. Jaskier left him to find what he was after, only picked up some chalk before he walked away. The rains made Geralt’s hair awful to take care of and this should help.

Then he spent ages picking up the right jewellery and sold what he owned, reminding himself it’s for the better.

“How is it?” he grinned at Geralt as soon as he found him, splaying his hand in front of his witcher’s face.

“How’s what…” Geralt trailed off, annoyance seeping out of his voice.

Jaskier always liked pretty things. Rings, necklaces, cufflinks, broaches, buttons, anything shiny and golden or silver. It was all gone now, simple metal adorned with clearest ambers in their place.

Geralt looked over his ring and a cuff-link before letting his wrist go.

“Smart choice.” He said finally. “Won’t get as much attention as gold.” He smirked.

Jaskier punched his shoulder and made a face as he remembered few of his lovers trying to get away with his shinies. Good thing he never got actually drunk when with people and just played it up if it made them more receptive to flirting.

“Right.” He brushed the amber in the ring. “Smart, huh?”

Sun made it swim like molten gold, but it still couldn’t match Geralt’s eyes.


	19. In which Geralt gets a makeover.

When Geralt cursed for the umptieth time, Jaskier sighed and put his lute into the case before catching up to him.

“What’s wrong this time?” he asked, because Geralt’s been tetchy since the heatwave hit them by the border and not even keeping to Blue mountains when they were able helped.

“This damn hair!” Geralt grabbed a fistful of hair on the side of his head and pulled, as if he could yank it away. Jaskier measured him with a look until he took a calming breath. “Autumn’s never this hot. It’s usually fine, but I can’t even tie this shit up and-”

“Braid it.” Jaskier shrugged and turned to walk again, only to have Geralt grab him by an arm.

He kept his mouth shut, because there was almost a shy look to witcher’s eyes and when already pissed off, it would be easy to make him clam up and get even  _ worse _ until Jaskier either annoyed truth out of him or got it out in bath when they reached Venger-something.

Both took too much effort in the heat, so he chose to just wait.

“Are you offering?” Geralt asked, finally, letting Jaskier go.

Jaskier wondered if he was, actually, then shrugged.

“Sure? Might need redoing often on the sides, but should help with the heat. Did for my mother.” He smiled. “Hope you won’t break my fingers if I pull too much?”

Geralt mumbled something decidedly unsavoury about nobles, before changing it to  _ some nobles _ and Jaskier chuckled. He talked about it, now. Sometimes, a little, since he wasn’t afraid of revealing himself anymore. It was nice.

They reached a shaded spot under a tree and Jaskier got to work. He used some talc to make the hair better to work with, ignoring Geralt’s exaggerated sneezing as he brushed the excess out. Then he started off with a main braid in his har, starting from above his forehead, and let himself loose.

Geralt shifted around a few times, clearly aware it was taking way too much time for simple braids, but didn’t say anything. Jaskier was glad and started humming as he got to the five-plait. He did the sides last, keeping hair as tight as he could without it hurting Geralt, using ribbons and sneaking it into the main braid so it wouldn’t fall apart too easily.

“Here, all done.” He stroked the braid absentmindedly before moving to sit by Geralt’s side. “Feels better? I kept it ending when you got the shave and pulled the growing hair in, so it should feel lighter.” He explained, a little nervous as Geralt reached to touch it.

He reached for his bag to get a mirror, trying his best to show Geralt most of the braid.

“Your pin?” he asked finally and Jaskier bit his lip.

Lilies of the valley and the blade, keeping the main braid lopped so it wouldn’t touch Geralt’s neck. He shouldn’t have, absolutely not, but-

Geralt hates Ciradris. He avoided it as much as Jaskier was avoiding Kerack, something about his prat of a cousin that witcher didn’t divulge much about, but there was little chance he would go there.

“Forgot to sell it, so you can keep it. Fits you.” Jaskier shrugged and moved to put the mirror away, hoping to get himself under control.

Braids seemed to help immensely as the heat didn’t let off through the rest of the month, Geralt’s mood improving drastically.

It did hold for about 3 days or one hunt before Jaskier had to redo it from scratch, but it only gave him an excuse to take over caring for Geralt’s hair completely. He wasn’t gonna complain about that.

Slowly, Jaskier even stopped worrying about Geralt figuring it out. He let himself go more and more intricate, remembering his lessons and making the whole process take longer and longer. Geralt never complained, not once, if anything preening whenever the braid caught attention. Jaskier asked, once, but his witcher just shrugged with a mumble about preferring the braid to turn heads instead of the colour. Jaskier let him leave it at that and put even more effort into the braids.

It made for much more trouble with planning the baths, since it took even longer as the hair dried or to brush it before washing, but Jaskier just took care of it all.

He should feel guilty, probably. About keeping Geralt in the dark, about using his lack of knowledge, about being dishonest. He forgave him for keeping his identity, but would he for lying about his feelings?

It only ever took one smile from Geralt, as he touched the braid when wiping his neck under the hot sun, for Jaskier to talk himself into continuing. After all, there was little chance his witcher would ever discover Jaskier just plaited courting braids onto his very head, pinning them down with a symbol of his family. So it was fine, right?

Just an accident only Jaskier knows about, Geralt blissfully unaware. Like all the stupid rituals they kept stumbling into by happenstance.

The irony isn’t lost on him, the way he bought the pin as a planned prank only to use it in earnest, but it’s still fine as long as Geralt doesn’t know.

So where did all those foreboding feelings come from?


	20. In which Jaskie gets crowned.

Melancholy didn’t fully hit Jaskier till they crossed from Aedirn to Kaedwen. They planned their parting, this time, to part by Liksela so Jaskier can go to spend winter with Elaina’s again and Geralt can turn to pass by Buki on his way to Kaer Morhen.

It was  _ safe _ , for both of them. Safer than Jaskier stalking him from afar to try and worm his way into witcher’s home for winter, as he let himself dream about as he remade his braids with the knowledge it’s only a few more times he’ll be allowed it. Only dream, of course, that’s why they were splitting.

Elaina already sent him a confirmation, secretly sharing that some Temerian and Cintran royal guests might come for a while and he should make the best of it. So it was really best if they parted for the winter!

Jaskier’s heart seemed to finally scar over, because nothing would get through to it.

The heatwave ended and seemed to take all the sun away with it, days growing darker and colder, trees turning bare almost overnight. It all seemed as bleak as Jaskier felt, so when they reached the river he all but collapsed upon a patch of grass right by some late flowers still in bloom, relishing in the faint sweetness in the air.

“Should I leave you alone?” Geralt kicked his arm lightly as he passed him to let Roach drink from the river and Jaskier couldn’t even bother to stop grinning, let alone get angry.

They might be the last wild flowers he sees, it should be celebrated somehow!

“I know!” he sat up suddenly and started carefully picking up flowers, separating them in his lap.

Geralt ignored him as he made camp, as usual, so Jaskier was left to twisting flowers into a wreath. He didn’t even try to sneak up on Geralt and just marched straight up, sitting down between his legs to put it over his head. He lifted the braid a bit so it would hold it in place and smiled even wider.

“Can you not?” Geralt sighed, but didn’t push him away, finishing setting up the fire around Jaskier before using Igni to start it up.

“I could, my darling witcher, but then you’d have no wreath to charm into never wilting, to take to Kaer Morhen as a reminder I shall be awaiting you in spring!” Jaskier almost sang it, his voice lilting as he wrapped arms around Geralt to shamelessly hug him and sneak a sniff at the flowers again.

He got shoved to the ground for all his efforts, but safely away from fire and the wreath stayed on Geralt’s head. It was wet the next morning and didn’t seem to wilt either. Jaskier kept grinning till his face hurt, feeling alive again.

It was silly and would stop whenever they finally split apart, leaving him to miserable winter. He knew it. Sometimes he even believed it was what he needed, to stop feeling heartbroken over his love and just take what’s given and be glad for it.

_ Waste not, want not. _ Waste no energy on being miserable lest it seep into their relationship. Geralt already asked if all was well with him and the countess, after the way the last ball ended. Jaskier threw all the blame at Ferrant, quoting the letter that burned itself into his mind against his will and efforts to forget. It seemed to work, for now, but how many times will an excuse like that work?

Well, he wasn’t wrong. It all ended the day they planned to part ways, as he woke up to something tickling at his face. Geralt was hovering above him, something bright in his hands and touching Jaskier’s head. Witcher froze, caught in the act and actually faintly red on his cheeks.

Jaskier blinked, wondering if he imagined it as Geralt moved away.

“Here.” The thing was all but thrown as his face, or rather, on his head. Jaskier picked it up and froze himself, a messy wraith handing off his hands.

Meadowsweet and some late foxglove, with something close enough to geranium to make Jaskier’s mind run wild.

Stupid, useless and insincere. That’s what it said. It was random, due to the season, but it hurt just as much as if Geralt had spelled it out for him, even if he had no idea. Why did he ever learn flower language again?

It took a hissed curse for Jaskier to realize he was crying.

“I-It’s fine!” he assured Geralt, putting the wreath on his head and trying not to break it even more than it was due to how tightly it was made. “It’s a-awful, but I l-love it…” he choked out before dissolving into open sobs.

Geralt sat by, clearly startled and worried and unsure what to do. He pulled Jaskier close, finally, to lean against him and stroked his back. It only made things worse, because Jaskier deserved none of it.

Not an ounce of this kindness and friendship, because he was a vile monster, taking advantage of Geralt’s naivete to keep courting him for his own selfish satisfaction. He deserved none of the friendship he was so openly given when all he returned was deceit!

It took a while until he calmed down. He wasn’t in the right mind to find an excuse, so he just talked about how he learned to make wreaths from sweet old Bella, before she got sent away, and the time he made one for his mother, only to watch her throw it into the fireplace.

_ So really, it’s just bad memories coming up, truly nothing else to it. _

It doesn’t look like Geralt was convinced either.

All the better, since Jaskier couldn't even convince himself.


	21. In which Jaskier gets caught.

Winter does Jaskier good, in many ways.

The cold seeps into his bones, deep and permanent, but it helps him cool off. His heart calms down, without Geralt close to get it running slowly letting the logic get through to it. They would never work, so they should cherish what they have and not try for impossible.

It’s not like Jaskier has much to offer, after all, for someone like Geralt. Not when his reputation is starting to pick up – give it a few more years and Jaskier will be all but useless to him.

Elaina helped immensely. She even offered to try and take his mind off things, but Jaskier refused her on the spot. It was bitter-sweet, the way his first love he was so relentlessly chasing just months ago was now something to remember fondly and never let happen.

They did keep each other company and very warm through the winter, in understanding it was nothing emotional. Jaskier was fine with that – maybe pushing for sex as something physical would let him help keep any stray fantasies from including Geralt. They never did, even when he realized he loves him… he wasn’t sure what to make of it. He did know it was why he didn’t realize his feelings for years – he was always very touchy and tactile about his love.

Yet somehow with Geralt he still felt satisfied to just be close to him, to braid his hair and hug him here and there. It was... startling. And bitter-sweet.

It was a theme of the winter. The foreshadowed guest came to stay with Elaina, among them a Cintran mage on his way to visit Ban Ard, and Jaskier could perform, but things still came to him like through a haze. All emotions paling whenever he remembered Geralt was not there to share in them.

Elaina said it was sweet, it tasted bitter to Jaskier.

At least he landed a job, the mage assuring him he shall recommend him to his Queen should she ever want for a minstrel. Jaskier thanked and bowed and preened, but was most greedy for any stray comment about his fame, being more and more known as witcher’s bard, White Wolf’s bard.

His old dreams of grandeur and Continent-wide notoriety where nowhere to be found. Instead all he thought about was whether Geralt took out the braids already and if he used the hairpin.

But time smoothed it all out, snow covering the land and calm taking over Jaskier.

He had Geralt’s friendship. He can be close to him. Why ask for more and risk losing what he already has?

This time he stayed till he was sure the spring melt was there to stay, so he had time to safely reach Buki. He missed Geralt by a few days, so he took a day to catch up with Adam and Anna - smiling as she squealed when he gave her Elaina’s letter, asking to come and work for her, then gently letting Adam down when he offered him to stay and celebrate. He bought a proper embroidery set from Greta as he promised last time, listening to a few more tales too.

Then he set out on Geralt’s trail, finding him easily one town over, studying notice board.

He was shaved like last year, but with hair kept in place by the pin and Jaskier smiled, marching up to him. Bitter-sweet indeed.

“Someone was supposed to wait!” he wraps arms around Geralt and pushes to his tiptoes, to lean over his arm at what he’s reading. He barely had the time to see a price of  _ 2000 coins _ before he’s spun around.

Then he has the life squeezed out of him like a wrung out cloth, his ribs protesting at the abuse. He slaps at Geralt’s arms good five times before he relents at least a little and Jaskier gasps for breath.

He doesn’t move away though, leaning on the witcher and closes his eyes for a moment. Like that he can almost imagine- but no.

Not worth the risk.

“So what’s the grand prize?” he asks, letting his hands wander over Geralt’s shoulder and arm. He moves a step back, watching him carefully and notices his clothes actually fit him, now, stretched comfortably over his bicep instead of hanging off.

Well, good to know he’s well fed and supplied in the Kaer Morhen, at least. It’s all black still, but by now he knows it’s just easier to hide dirt. Especially ichor from the monster.

It’s actually an  _ insultingly good way to get money _ , getting ichor and selling it as dye, if only Geralt had patience for it – and for the merchants. Though from the experience of buying fabrics Jaskier doesn’t blame him one bit.

“Gorgon.” Geralt raises the paper so Jaskier has read it too. The mention of  _ food grade meat _ makes his eyebrow rise.

“And a contract from Temeria’s all the way in Kaedwen because…?” he trails, a bad feeling twisting in his stomach.

“It’s suicidal to hunt one.” Geralt sighed “It feeds on poisons,  _ a gorgon’s very breath enough to kill all around it _ .” He recited, clearly from some warning given to him or read in a book. “Apparently a perfect fit for a Temerian feast.”

“Doesn’t that just sound-  _ delectable _ .” Jaskier shuddered and looked at the contract over again. “Not that I doubt it, royals spew venom on the daily, they need to get it from somewhere.” He snorted, but at the look on Geralt's face quickly quieted down.

It’s painfully easy to see what’s on his mind. It would split them up again, for who knows how long since the beats just  _ lives in mountain caves _ per the notice, and they barely met again… but on the other hand, the reward could set them up for weeks.

“Hmm,  _ staying alive _ or a  _ small fortune _ , such a daunting choice.” Jaskier gave the notice back to Geralt before shrugging. “We’re going to the west already. You’ll have your fun and I’ll make myself busy or something.” He grins. “Just come back in one piece and not almost naked, we can’t exactly afford full new armour unless you get paid for this.”

Great rolls his eyes and then the paper.

“If I ever get within its range I’m coming back as a spectre or not at all.” He snorted.

Jaskier breathed slowly through the surge of panic and somehow kept a small smile up.

“Improvising the newest song it is then.” He says lightly. “Wish you’d make it easier on me, you know? It’s hard work, trying to make something catchy from  _ I stalked it for two day and cut it in two.”  _ He mimicked Geralt’s gravelly voice and jumped to the side to avoid a jab to his ribs. “Hey, easy now, dear witcher! You almost squeezed them to pieces and may I remind you they put food on the table?” he grumbled, moving his hands.

Geralt flashed him an indulgent smile and reached to his pocket.

“Here, let’s call this an apology.”

Jaskier looked at the tiny fabric pouch with interest and opened it, at the sight of shining thimble barely suppressing a wistful sigh.

Fate’s right back to the business of messing up their lives, it seemed.

“Noticed those…” Geralt pointed out to his belt. “…and a few surprising  _ additions _ to my armor.” Geralt gave Jaskier  _ a look _ so he quickly focused on the notice board, making mental notes of anything that seemed important. “Those fingers put a roof over our heads too, right? Best spare them the stabbing.” He smirked.

Jaskier did his best not to do the same and failed completely, grinning at the familiarity of their banter till his cheeks hurt.

At least he didn’t blush.

They parted again by the border, Geralt marching south to chase for the monster in caves and Jaskier slowly going in the direction of Vizima, because the notice was put by king Foltest himself.

He worries still, so he sings along the way whenever he can and stashes the money away, the fields and wild fruit plentiful enough to keep him alive with a meal per day. It’s a good routine that helps him get back to life on the road without Geralt watching him grumble and curse at the way his feet blister and other little conveniences that always seem worse after a season spent in luxury.

In Vizima he makes himself busy in an inn kept by a friend from academy, singing in the evenings and wasting time on embroidering a new belt he got at winter solstice from Elaina. It was pretty, dark and wrapping around his waist and other leg than the blade, with a pouch small enough to not hinder his walk, but big enough to keep a few crucial things. Most importantly, the buckles were very tricky to open and the whole thing was made with steel-wire instead of thread, so there was no cutting it off of him unawares either. It was embarrassing how many purses he lost in taverns, before realising he wasn’t just clumsy, but someone was lifting them off him (by which he means Geralt saw it once and almost broke the poor kid’s hand to pieces when he caught him).

At least there was no getting used to using the knife again, because to this day any lesson he gets from Geralt is a move and an order to repeat it a million times. He’s got a dozen now, his fingers calloused in completely different ways than he’s accustomed to, but at least it’s been ages since he dropped anything, as the repeated stabbing and pushing at least trained his reflexes. It was the only thing he could keep doing in the warm safety of his room in Elaina’s castle so he kept at it rigorously.

That, and his safety. He was whining about all of this being useless at the beginning, then he fell asleep when guarding Roach as Geralt talked out the contract and woke up to someone trying to sneak the reins from his hands. The muscle memory worked and the bastard had a knife in him before Jaskier fully opened his eyes.

Hitting blind and the fact he was sitting down meant it only got him in the thigh, but it convinced him Geralt might be onto something, so he stabbed the air till he could do it drunk off his ass.

It’s a good thing, it turns out, because when Geralt does reach Vizima over two weeks later, parts of his armour are in tatters and what’s even worse is his sword. The strap was gone, both blades tied to Roache’s saddle - the steel one fine if not for the holes from something eating at the leather sheath, but the silver one had no sheath at all and was in two pieces.

“Are you fine?” Jaskier jumped off the little stone wall he’s been balancing on, entertaining a couple of kids as their parents stood in the stalls in the market. “I  _ assume _ that’s the dinner, but you didn’t-?” he couldn’t get the rest of it past his lips, the  _ were you poisoned, will you live, is something wrong? _

Geralt shook his head.

“Sword and half my potions.” He flashed him a tired smile, letting a package the size of a foal fall to the ground with a thud, earth trembling minutely. “And only half my armour, see?”

Jaskier let out a choked laugh before shaking his head.

“Here, sit down and drink.” He pushed a bottle of ale to keep warm into his hands and moved him to sit on the stones. “I’ll fetch a guard or something to get his and alert the king, okay?”

That Geralt just hummed around the bottle’s neck only worried him more. He took all his potions and was fresh out of Kaer Morhen, how awful was the bloody monster? And who in their right mind would eat it?!

_ Young Princess Ada _ , it turned out. At least if Jaskier was to believe the uncomfortable mumbling of a servant that was called to watch over the guards sent to bring the meat to the castle’s pantry. Jaskier would judge, usually, but taking into account the years the girl spent as a monster, it was a wonder that only her diet got twisted.

He did make up a tune, as he and Geralt waited for another guard to bring up the payment – a ditty about a cursed monster given human form, who hunted down other beasts and ate their flesh to subdue its own nature. It wasn’t his best work, but it would serve its purpose.

And it made Geralt smile, as tired as he was, so Jaskier didn’t care much even if it was the worst work of his life.

“I talked with a smith on my way there.” He sat by Geralt and leaned against him, head on his arm. Witcher stunk to high heavens and he could still feel something sticky on his arm, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about it either.

Not when the sword being broken and the sheath damaged meant the thing got much too close to the  _ poisons all it breathes at _ territory for Jaskier’s comfort.

Speaking of which…

“He said he’ll try and mend the blade with the silver, but if it fails he knows a master in Rinde who, at his personal referral, should agree to re-cast it  _ without  _ leaving us completely broke.” He explained and looked at Geralt hesitantly. “I’m sorry to use your gift like that darling, I truly am, but it served its purpose!” he patted his new freshly embroidered belt before sneaking a hand to start picking at things stuck in Geralt’s hair. “Besides, your safety’s high above any material things.” He shrugged.

Geralt gave him a look, eyes blown wide before leaning back against him.

“Why the lilies?” he patted blindly at his thigh.

Jaskier smiled, relieved, and launched into a story about his nanny, Bella, growing them out in her room. It was true enough.


	22. In which Geralt spills his guts.

They did end up visiting Rinde, the blade fixed and ready to slay monsters by a curious couple of a dwarf and her elven husband, one working the smithy and the other runes. They even took less than they probably should on the condition of Geralt helping out Dareen in the mine that got infested with something and Jaskier luring some people at the market to their wares for a few days.

It meant he got to make up all the silly epic stories he could just to sell weapons, as long as he said no lies about their abilities. Weapons with history always sell better, Sarleigh said, and Jaskier believed him after only a day of work.

He was also convinced the elf used magic to get people closer as well, but he wasn’t about to mention it. No use looking a gifted horse in its mouth, especially when you’ve got your hand inside.

It also meant a room in a nice inn and baths at their leisure, which meant daily because Geralt came back either black with mine dusts, covered in gore or both and Jaskier was not going to waste money on replacing the ruddy sheets.

The innkeeper was nice when it came to keeping their presence there private and not letting people come up to their room, but also a cheapskate. Best not get on their bad side.

They stayed a week with no end of the job in sight when Jaskier finally got the courage to decide to ask about braiding Geralt’s hair again. He was helping him with the bath already, because there was no earthly way to make him let Geralt into a bed without inspection and the lazy bastard thought  _ spotted like a cow _ was a good enough job.

He did suspect he just wanted it to be done for him, so he just took over with only minor grumbling.

“What even  _ is this _ ?” he asked, to start off. They were both in the bathroom, Geralt soaking in almost boiling water and Jaskier fighting to make his hair turn white again from the sticky, grey-green mess.

The green part was some weird slime that stuck to everything and refused to let go unless rubbed off into a rag, which meant they were going through a lot of them.

“Some mutated chelonodrake.” Geralt sighed, rolling out his shoulders. “Eggs must’ve been left in an underground lake before something cut it off from the sea. With no place to grow they mutated and twisted to fit what little space there was and then spread out when clay mining broke into the water.”

Jaskier tried to remember if it sounded in any way familiar, but he came out empty handed.

“Can’t say I heard of them…”

“You would’ve heard about dracoturtle or totordragon.” Geralt smirked and splashed his face. “Or a  _ minge-mawed armour-plated son of a scabby bitch, _ if you asked Dareen. Or any other dwarf, really.”

Jaskier snorted, easily imagining it in her sharp voice.

“None roll off the tongue, so expect me to take some liberties, darling.” He shook his head and then decided it was as good of a moment as many to broach the subject. “Say, heard any tales during the winter that might have struck an inspiration?” he waited for an appropriate moment, before asking gently “How was your family, by the way? Did you all meet?”

Geralt nodded, craning his head back as Jaskier washed out the first round of soap. The tub wasn’t exactly big enough to fit Geralt fully, but they made so. Although Jaskier did plan on taking Geralt to the Olben’s Bathhouse if they ever stray far enough south to reach Cintra.

“It was fine.” Geralt sighed, closing his eyes. “Vesemir was first as always, then me and Lambert. Eskel was late…” he frowned then, briefly, and Jaskier moved his fingers to rub talc into his scalp, to try and sooth away any worries and fears.

Oh, how he wishes he could do anything to help Geralt, but what can he even try, with the scraps of info that can barely be called a theory?

“All back in one piece? No limbs missing and the likes?”

“Eskel scored with  _ a succubus _ , of all things, while Lambert somehow grew out his ego ever more.”

Jaskier hummed, listening to bits and pieces as he brushed Geralt’s hair with his fingers, trying to pick out the last bits of grime that clumped together with the powder. Then it was the second wash which usually worked to get Geralt more or less presentable. Oils to stop them from becoming a disaster came last.

“Say, did you still have the braid when you got there?” he asked suddenly and the way Geralt shifted only piqued his curiosity.

“Why do you ask?”

“Simply curious if they had any comments, darling witcher.” Jaskier grinned and reached for the cup to wet his hair again. “An artist forever craves attention and praise… and if you’d like I can offer my services again.” He winks at him.

“If you got nothing better to do.” Geralt makes an exaggerated face, ruined completely by his smile. “Not Eskel’s thing, but Vesemir said it looked useful and Lambert…” Geralt paused then before sighing. “He said it looked like a candle’s knot.”

Jaskier gasped in an outrage, almost dropping the soap.

“It did  _ not _ !” he snapped, letting his anger out by rubbing away all the last bits of coal from Geralt’s hair. “I sure hope you reminded mister stinker he’s the last person with any say in the matter of hair styling!” he huffed in annoyance.

_ Candle’s knot _ , honestly, couldn’t he at least be creative about his insults?

Geralt chuckled and stretched his legs under the water before hoisting them up on the edge, to lower himself down. Jaskier put a rolled up towel under his neck by habit and wiped some suds from his forehead, very consciously not looking away from what he was doing.

“Well, what did you do?”

“Keep him from trying to set it on fire.”

“He did not-!” Jaskier gasped again, aware he clutched his fist around Geralt’s hair only as the witcher hissed and craned his head back. “Sorry, dear.”

“He didn’t succeed.” Geralt repeated with a smirk. “And I chose to take after you…” he hesitated for a moment, his face reddening as he closed his eyes and, Jaskier almost gasped  _ again _ , sung quietly: “ _ Lambert, Lambert, what a prick, only dopplers make him tick. For none else in the world, can turn into czort, with adequately proportionate dick _ .”

Jaskier gasped before descending into ungraceful chortling, wishing he could see the face of the other witcher if only to have something to cheer him up during the cold, lonely winters.

The light mood got to him, at least that’s the excuse he would later use tell himself when he wondered whatever came over him to ask:

“What did ever happen to the rest of your lot?”

Geralt all but froze in the tub, eyes snapping open and glowing gold, pupils barely visible and Jaskier cringed.

“S-sorry, just- ignore it, you don’t have to answer, of course you don’t. I promise.” He assured softly and went about finishing washing Geralt’s hair without another world.

It took the remainder of the bath, their supper and until Geralt sharpened all of his own weapons and then taking Jaskier’s knife (despite the rare use leaving it fairly sharp), until his witcher spoke again.

“It’s not-  _ talked about _ , what happened.” He said and Jaskier almost dropped his lute. Not that it would damage it, bloody elven craft seemed to make the most fragile instrument into a bludgeoning weapon as he discovered by bashing a few heads, but it was the principle of things.

By that time Jaskier would’ve taken any explanation, so he just nodded and slowly put the lute away to go and sit next to Geralt on his bed.

Geralt took a few shuddering breaths before he spoke again, the slick sounds of whetstone on the blade the only other noise.

“Our schools trained together. Wolf and Cat, both from Kaedwen, though they were more careless. Used stronger mutagens, experimenting more, producing more-  _ anomalies _ . Cats going berserk, turning as monstrous as what we’re supposed to hunt…” he shook his head and stopped sharpening the blade. “Then Radowit got his sights on becoming all-powerful, his mage and some Temerian druids talking him into that bloody  _ Tournament _ .” He sucked in a breath.

Jaskier leaned against him, reaching to pry the whetstone and knife’s handle away when he started squeezing them too hard. Then he pushed Geralt lightly back, till he fell onto the pillows and Jaskier could lean against this chest.

Then he waited, moving his fingers absentmindedly over Geralt’s arm and chest.

He knew there were other witchers, not just wolves, but he never wondered about their relationships. Geralt seemed afraid of meeting them. Jaskier just assumed it was because of the whole Blaviken mess, but… it looks like there was much more to it.

“The idiots  _ fell for it _ .” Geralt choked out finally. “Bunch of lunatics fancied themselves monopoly for hunting in Kaedwen, slaughtering wolves until Radowit’s soldier rained arrows on  _ them _ !” he was hissing by the end, shaking under Jaskier, so he moved up and all but laid on top of him, chin perched up on Geralt’s chest.

He was breathing harshly and fast, face twisted in a mix of anger and pure agony that made Jaskier’s heart ache.

“He forced him- put a spell so strong it all but cooked Gweld’s brain in his skull- just to  _ sick him on me _ , to kill me-!” He was choking on his own words and Jaskier decided to step in.

“Hush.” He covered Geralt’s mouth with a hand and kept it there firmly, even when the bastard had the gall to slobber all over it. “It’s enough, darling. Don’t force yourself, it can wait as long as you need it to.”

Geralt glared at him, mumbling something incoherent, but Jaskier could easily guess what it was. Some nonsense about braving the pain and not being weak, which he was not gonna tolerate.

“It’s  _ enough,  _ I said!” he repeated firmly and sat up to glare right back at Geralt. “It’s enough it still haunts you, I won’t see you torture yourself!” he took a shake breath and slumped a little. “Not for my inane curiosity, I won’t.” he added, guilty bubbling in his chest and threatening to spill all over.

For a while the both just stared at each other, before Geralt finally relaxed against the bed, eyes closed. Jaskier kept his hand up for a while longer, just in case, before he took it back. He wiped it on Geralt’s shirt, because  _ it was disgusting, you utter tool _ , then laid pressed close to him, head on his bicep.

Sun moved slowly in the sky, till it finally set and the room was blanketed in evening shadows, smoothing out the sharp edges of silence still hanging in the air.

“We’re friends.” Geralt said, slowly. “Not just- curious, you- you deserve to know.” He sighed. “You tell  _ me _ things. Your home, family. I shou-”

“That’s where I stop you.” Jaskier covered his mouth again, briefly before stroking his cheek as he looked up at him. “I offer freely. I won’t demand the same, since we’ve lived much different lives and suffered in our own ways. I will always like to hear whatever you  _ offer _ , but don’t ever push yourself. I can wait however long you need me to.”

Geralt didn’t seem convinced, but after a while just nodded.

They don’t talk much for the rest of the day, but when Jaskier woke up next morning there was a sweet pastry with cream, wrapped neatly in a pretty, white handkerchief. He sighs, eats it and then sits down with his new embroidery set. Might as well break it in since he already has an excuse.

The sword was too badly broken, so his thimble survived for now, mighty useful as Jaskier set out to carefully put stitches into the silk. He doubts Geralt will accept a gift, so he’ll probably just keep it, but who says he cannot entertain himself?

Geralt’s back as late as always, this time covered only in all manner of dust, dirt and the likes.

“Bath’s awaiting.” He points out and sits up to rub his eyes. Stitching something with such thin thread is doing a number on them. “What do you think?” he puts the fabric up after Geralt comes back up from submerging his hair. He shows off the dark head of a wolf slowly coming through, the lines thin and delicate on white silk. “The cake was lovely, but I thought it a shame to waste such fine silk. Where did you even get it?”

Geralt shrugs, staring at the silk for a while, water dripping from his face as he leans against the edge of the tub.

“He was my friend.” He says finally and Jaskier’s up at attention in seconds, handkerchief set to the side so he might jump to the witcher’s side without ruining the stitch. “Best friend, Gweld. A-and they used it, because I started to sniff out their trap.”

Jaskier sits by the tub and just leans in, head on Geralt’s shoulder, probably getting coal and water all over his face and hair. He reached to squeeze his hand, listening intently to a few scraps of memories before Geralt started choking on words again.

He pushed him under water then and set to washing his hair. He braids it in the morning, humming mindlessly under his nose.

They speak like that, rarely, little pieces of information during baths or late in the nights. Memories about other witchers, names thrown out here and there, a description or two added at random, letting Jaskier paint a picture of Wolf School in his mind, just like he would create whole stories from short peaks at the forbidden books on father’s high shelf, back home.

It stayed like that for the two weeks it took to finish cleaning up the mine, but he noticed Geralt sharing less and less the closer they got to leaving. He doesn’t mind – the mental toll of sharing such tales must be tremendous, so he doesn’t expect to hear more for a long while, possibly until they find another safe place for as long as here.

Finally, the mutated turtles are only a memory and few stains on Geralt’s armour that wouldn’t fully go away. Jaskier would’ve felt bad about an extinction, if the shells of the little bastards weren’t worth a small fortune and haven’t bought them life-long free service from Doreen and Sarleigh.

He did make up a song, in the end, about stumbling through the darkness and fighting monsters in the shadows. Spooky ones always take off with children and they are the best way to get something popular quick.

The song about the _other_ _extinction_ – about the betrayal, the greed, the pain and the genocide – was only ever getting written in the safety of his mind.


	23. In which Jaskier indulges in blackmail.

They’re on their way to Oxenfurt, Jaskier planning on visiting its libraries to try and scour it for any mention of witchers in history. The heat is blazing as the sun shined blindingly bright at the crystal-clear sky and it’s probably the glare that allows the harpy to get a jump on them.

Or  _ a swoop _ , rather, claws digging into Jaskier’s arms before wind pushes a scream right back into his throat. He tries to bash his lute at the monster, but it just grabs it with a trill and he’s left with trying not to choke on his own tongue as each change in the glide makes pain in his arms blind him worse than the sun.

There is only one thought in his mind, pulsing with each beat of his heart.

Geralt. He noticed and he’ll help him, he knows this – he trusts the bastard, but as moments tick away and sun burns his face, he feels dread pooling in his stomach. Whatever caught him is flying fast. Maybe faster than even a horse as mighty as Roach can gallop. Definitely faster than a witcher can run.

What if he’s just lost? What if he gets dropped only to splash against the ground – what if he gets taken to a nest and torn apart as dinner?

Time stretches. He can no longer move his arms. The blood stopped dripping down. It’s tacky on his skin where he can still feel it. His face feels as if someone poured boiling water over it, he’s eyes burn in agony at the slightest move.

A screech loud enough to make his ears ring breaks through the static of the winds and the next thing he knows, he is  _ falling _ .

He should feel panicked, he should do something, but a strange, serene calm washes over him, numbing down the pain and muffling wind whipping around him. He’s falling, the monster’s screech coming from far away, so what is there to do? Waste his last moments?

He wishes he’d ran from home earlier. He wishes he ran from home much earlier, that he ran for the Blaviken just to find Geralt before the tragedy happened, whatever it was, before years of hatred hurt him so badly, even if he knew he’d be a snot-nosed brat of barely eight years old. Hell, he wishes he’d been thrown to witchers  _ himself _ , back when they were still making new ones, to spare himself his awful family and to keep Geralt company. He wishes he argued more for some fighting lessons or that he thought to reach for his knife before he stopped feeling his hands. He wishes Geralt feels no love for him and that he never knew of his own feelings, wishes to spare him at least this pain-

Then a gust of wind hits his back with the strengths of a boulder, his clothes soaking up blood as his skin splits open. He relishes in a brief moment of suspension to scream out the air he still has in his lungs before he’s falling again. He tries to prepare himself for an even worse fall, but when he crashes it’s into the water.

He chokes on it and his eyes burn even worse when he opens them on instincts. Then shock passes and his arms and back truly  _ burn _ and he chokes on water in a silent scream. Everything goes fuzzy, sounds getting more muffled. He tries to move, to follow splashes of light flickering around but then they spin with the growing shadows and he cannot breath-!

He’s pulled, up and up as his clothes cut into his wounds and make him swallow more water, throat burning like everything else, air hitting his face like a slap and then pain in his back blinds him for a moment, a scream trying to tear from his mouth and pushing out the water. He chokes on the vomit, seizing in panic as he thinks this might be his death before he’s turned to the side.

He spits water and bile and whatever’s left of his lunch for so long his vision blurs again and suddenly it stops, letting him gasp for air. Hand runs over his back and he flinches, but then whines when it jumps away. His head is spinning and he can’t get his eyes to open.

What he can do without a doubt is recognise the smell all around him.

“-h-hi’hima-?” he hacks out in surprise.

They were on the other side of the Pontar, how are they so far south? Why did Geralt let the bloody thing carry him for so long-?

“Too high up.” Geralt’s voice breaks him from the panic before it can truly start. “Had to lure the harpy here. Aard was already a gamble between breaking your fall and just killing you faster, I had to- I couldn’t risk the drop.”

Jaskier nods slowly, trying to reach to rub at his eyes but his arms jerk painfully before refusing to move again.

He heard a mumbled curse above and wished he could see Geralt. Or hug him, to calm him down.

“Why ehen-?”

Geralt  _ growls _ at that and sounds a moment away from murder.

“Your fucking lute!” he snaps and Jaskier flinches away from him despite himself. The way the witcher sucks in a breath makes him grind his teeth and throw himself at the source of his voice, head hitting hard wood with a painful thud.

He grinds his teeth and the darkness around swims as his head is lifted, then laid on something softer.

“Back ‘urt.” He grunts out and wants to laugh when he can fucking hear as Geralt relaxes. A tentative hand brushed away his hair.

“You should sleep through it.” Geralt says finally and Jaskier needs a moment to force his muddled brain to work.

The breathing and this, right, that spell or other… and sleep sounds mighty fine right now. He mumble something in assent and sighs as Geralt’s command lulls him to rest.

He wakes up in a bed much softer than he'd expect, his arms numb and his back itching like he took a dive into poison ivy. He can open his eyes and breath without pain, at least, but his arms worry him. They’re covered in bandages, as is most of his chest, no shirt to be found. At least he’s got a blanket to spare him some dignity.

He breathes in and out slowly and then tries to move his fingers. They twitch uselessly at first, making him hiss at the pinpricks stabbing into him as he tries to force his muscles to work, but he tries again and again until he can move them properly.

That’s gonna have to be good enough for now.

“You’re awake.” The doors barely finish swinging open till Geralt’s runs to his bed, a bowl half-thrown at a table by the bed carelessly.

Jaskier smiles as he’s looked over, as if Geralt suspected something to be wrong just because he woke up. He bears it, calming down just as the witcher's stare becomes less frantic. He breathes through the pain of lifting his arm to grab at his hand, squeezing as hard he can.

Geralt smiles briefly before sagging onto the floor, leaning against the bed. He’s not in his armour, only a jerkin to protect him and it makes Jaskier relax. They’re safe, at least for now. That’s good, he’ll need a while before he can make himself get up and move.

“I asked Triss for help.” Geralt says, holding onto Jaskier’s hand like a lifeline. “She said the cuts were clean, harpy was young and had no time to get its talons worn down. You should recover completely… with few scars on your back.” He cringes.

Jaskier pulls his hand back to slap weakly at his head, weakened muscles spasming and making it slide off his jaw uselessly.

“You saved me. No guilt by the bedside, it’s bad manners.” He scolds him and shifts a little, looking around a spacious room.

That explained a lot, actually.

They must be under king Foltest’s care, then, and he barely feels any pain because he was healed by a sorceress. He hopes the price it cost Geralt wasn’t the worst… wait, that’s a good thing for once, isn’t it?

“You paid this all back with whatever Triss wanted in exchange, right?” he smiles a little.

Geralt snorts before nodding.

“Slaying monster, whatever else?” he mumbles, but there is something shadowing his stare and Jaskier frowns. He’ll have to talk with this Triss later and get the full story.

He doesn’t care that she’s a mage who saved his life and livelihood, nobody gets to hurt his witcher and keep his sympathy!

He leaves this train of thought for now.

“Something interesting?”

“There’s a mage stirring trouble. An upstart from Ban Ard that tried to force their way into court and now is sending krallachs at the livestock.”

Jaskier thinks for a moment, then sighs.

They planned to stop by Prisma, because in summer they were glad to buy any paints and pigments, which meant an easy profit for a witcher always killing one monster or another, black ichor flowing.

“Stay.” He answers a question that will never be asked, because even years later Geralt’s still skittish about asking for much. “Go and have fun so we can drown the market in Prisma in ichor and go straight to Novigrad. I’ll find someone to take me to Oxenfurt to rest and heal and we’ll meet in two weeks?” he offers, forcing himself to smile.

Geralt looks him over, clearly torn, before snapping his head in agreement. He gets up from the floor and sits on the bed before reaching for the bowl. It’s porridge with honey and Jaskier doesn’t even have decency to feel embarrassed as he’s fed, his hands useless and stomach growling.

The meal isn't even finished before he closes his eyes and just can’t make them open again.

Geralt pokes his mouth with a spoon a few more times before giving up.

“I’m glad you’re alive.” He hears him say as he’s falling back to sleep. He squeezes his hand with a satisfied hum, hoping it’s enough of an answer.

Next time he wakes up on his stomach, slim hands rubbing something into his stiff back. He hissed out a curse and blinks himself awake, turning his head to the side.

The woman is pretty as a picture and the smell of herbs makes his nose twitch.

“Triss Merigold, I assume?” he manages to get out before another rub makes him curse again.

“Touchy.” Triss laughs and wipes her hands before reaching for fresh linen and bandages. “Anything beside the burn?”

Jaskier shakes his head and then lets himself be sat up and wrapped. His arms are free of bandages, at least, fingers and hands moving easily as he wants them to, if a little stiff.

“Geralt made a right fuss about them.” Triss watches over him, a little too intently for his comfort. “Had to kick him out the room because he wouldn’t stop snapping at me as I mended what was left of your muscles.” She raises an inquisitive eyebrow and Jaskier ignores it completely.

He remembers the talk earlier and tries to hide the pain as he leans against the pillows.

“What do we owe you for such marvellous care?” he asks, barely able to force out his pleasant tone. No king’s sorceress would go rubbing away the pain away by hand just for anyone, not when she can leave it to the servants. Not unless she wants something from Jaskier.

Triss’s smile gains teeth this time as she puts her hair behind her ear.

“Nothing too strenuous, I assure you. Geralt set out after Crina already at my King's request and paid my  _ personal price  _ last night. He was all too eager, as soon as you woke up.”

Jaskier made a face at that, not appreciating the joke. It wasn’t even that he was in love with Geralt, he saw how mages treat witchers and-

He swiped at Triss when she tried to touch him and glared daggers at her unmoving smile.

“Didn’t take you for a jealous type, bard…” she said before shrugging. “You can always join us next time if you’re so-”

Jaskier froze for exactly one moment before snarling in rage, Triss’ surprise cooling the boil of his blood just a little.

“No next times.” He hissed out. “Or I’ll make sure to sing about nothing else but the mighty mage whoring herself out to get anyone to even look at her.”

Those pretty eyes flared with rage and Jaskier preened at it.

“I will-”

“Leave Geralt alone!” Jaskier talks over her threat, ignoring the way brambles were suddenly coming up the bed from between the stones in the floor. “Or we will see how true will the song ring for the people if I suddenly die.”

There was a moment of tense silence, dry twigs wrapping around Jaskier’s arms and thorns dragging across his skin, as he forced himself to stay perfectly relaxed. He almost died days prior, he knows how it feels to believe you’re losing everything and if his last earthly deed would be estranging Triss to Geralt forever, he would gladly go out this way.

Triss must notice some of it because after a while she huffs, the brambles receding.

“Fine, have at him all on your own! He’s not that special.” She rolled her eyes and put a jar of salve on the table. “Care for your own wounds too.”

Jaskier grabbed her by an arm, ripping his own from between the slowly mowing twigs and branches.

“Not so fast.” He said, perfectly civil now. “I need a transport to Oxenfurt… and a consultation.” He made a face just as she did. “Do it and no mention of a mage using a witcher’s death as a bait shall come up in my songs either.” He added, with just enough of venom.

Geralt tried to keep it from him, but the servants always talk and the evening spent in the kitchen instead of the party was  _ illuminating. _

He planned something, since they were coming to Prisma already. A painted stone, with runes to make it lure any animals or monsters away so they could at least sleep in peace as they camp with no need for Geralt to keep watch.

Triss looked him over, the calculating stare making Jaskier’s skin crawl.

“Fine, I’ll help with your whatever and then we’re  _ even _ .”

Jaskier smiled brightly and nodded.

“As long as you keep-”

“Away from Geralt, yes.” She rolled her eyes again, standing up. “Honestly, all this drama over a witcher?”

Jaskier bit his tongue till he tasted blood to keep quiet as she left the room.

Fucking mages!

He spent the next two days in the library, researching runes he wanted to use. He made sure to find out what he would need, so he’d notice if Triss tried anything suspicious.

After some time to cool off he didn’t despise her  _ as much _ . He was still incensed about her forcing Geralt to whore himself out if he wanted her help, but she seemed to genuinely not understand why it was such a vile thing in his eyes – as if she had no idea just how easily Geralt will roll over as long as it serves to help someone. But then she was surprised why he bothered so much for a witcher, so she clearly had no idea about them.

Good. Pains inflicted by those you know can be so much worse than if they came from strangers.

That’s how mages worked, he knew that much. Made pretty and eternally young, so if a king didn’t listen to reason there were alternative means of getting a point across. No wonder she treated Geralt the same, but it didn’t make Jaskier’s heart break any less.

Of all the people! Of all the witchers to use, she had to pick one so unable to refuse someone you might as well assume he was never taught the word “no”!

He sighed and closed the book to rub at his eyes. His back was better and his fingers were steadily getting back to their former glory.

His lute was delivered to him, actually, a day after his witcher left. It came with a terrified merchant, alongside a crate full of harpy parts for Jaskier to sell and a smaller box with those to keep, which meant Geralt made a detour on his way just to make sure his instrument got back to him.

He took petty satisfaction from watching Triss help him categorise everything and then her reaction when he sold it to the King for the betterment of the kingdom. He kept a few in his room, some scales and meat and blood, while the bundle of feathers and a jar filled with small, needle-like teeth were on him all the time to keep them safe. It was just to make sure Triss would truly help his little project.

He trusted her as far as he could throw her if not less.

Which wasn’t much.


	24. In which Jaskier misses out.

Novigrad used to excite Jaskier, but as he wandered markets waiting for Geralt he found himself more bored than ever. He did spend some time replacing his clothes – what was left of his bag got delivered along the lute. It must’ve been kept in the harpy’s claws and torn apart later, because most things were beyond salvaging.

At least it wasn’t his good bag, the one filled with the monster memorabilia and important personal things he kept by Roach’s saddle for safety. It meant it was with Geralt, though, so he had to buy something to keep the harpy parts in to avoid getting unwanted attention, but he was gonna have to buy a bag anyway, so he just resigned himself to starting with that.

Even if it put a restriction on how much he would be able to buy. Such a responsible action, Geralt would be proud.

He got to wave his knife at a few overly touchy drunkards, too, as he nursed his impatience in taverns. Warm pride bloomed in him every time he kept his mind sound and reached for the actual blade in time to use his newly re-honed reflexes for defence. He still wishes he thought of it when the harpy got him, maybe cutting tendons before he was taken too high…

He might’ve been too jumpy, admittedly, but with how low his libido was lately and the whole incident with Triss, his skin crawled at the very thought of sleeping around. He was never like that – like  _ her _ . He flirted only with those willing and was careful to never pressure his partners into anything… but it seemed there was still some old shame about the opinions certain people had of bards – that they’re little more than whores with nice voices and should be put in their place when they get too full of themselves.

He travelled through Prisma, before coming to Oxenfurt and then finally Novigrad.

He trusted Triss only as far as checking over his plan, so he still kept to the original idea of catching the mage who visited the academy every summer for some specific flowers that bloomed in the orchards.

Her help cost him much more than he would’ve liked, but with the king's payment for harpy parts it was  _ manageable, _ despite his need for a new wardrobe. Warding stone now sat safely in a satchel on his thigh, its weight a small comfort as he waited for Geralt to catch up and entertained himself by walking through the markets, looking for something interesting.

Then things went to hell, because it seemed that fate grew bored of playing with only Jaskier’s love life and decided to toy with his life itself. At least that’s what Jaskier blames on the mess he found himself in.

It started off innocently. After his last shopping walk he visited Vivaldi’s Bank, stashing away what was left of Foltest’s money just in case. He did it a few times already, putting in his pay from Oxenfurt when he spent winter there or when he landed an especially lucrative job as his name became better known. It was slow-going, but he felt safer knowing he had some funds, should worst come to worst.

He barely walked out the building before hearing the commotion. He walked closer by pure instinct and found three bulky men rounding up an elven couple to a wall. They were shouting something about  _ banks _ and  _ fire _ , words mixing with the crowd around trying to either cheer them on or calling on them to stop.

Jaskier would’ve passed by. He didn’t want to look for trouble, his arms weren’t back to their full strength and his back still hurt occasionally. It wasn’t smart to just throw himself into every commotion.

_ Except _ . Except living with a witcher for months had an inconvenient and inevitable side-effect of taking away his ability to turn a blind eye to anything. Especially when it had to do with anything inhuman.

He still remembers the black eye he got for defending Doreen from some drunk bastard. Or many other bruises for singing about  _ that abomination _ that are still a common occurrence for him.

This is why he ends up twisting between two brutes to stand before the couple, only then noticing a child with them. Little girl was clutching a cut-open leather pouch in her hands, trying to gather coins spilled onto the cobblestones.

Jaskier looked the men over and grimaced at the sight of the emblem. Of course, he was in Novigrad after all, who could be stirring up trouble but this damned cult?

“Is that what your honourable duty is these days? Trying to steal from children?!” he used the momentary surprise to shout over the noise, resting hands on his hips, one comfortably close to his knife. He was glad he left the lute in the inn, it would only slow him down. “You should be ashamed of yourselves, harassing people on the street with no provocation!”

He was gambling here, but he very much doubted a family somehow came onto those idiots on their own.

“It is them who should be shamed!” one of the men pointed at the elves, the little girl especially.

“Yes!” another came closer as some people cheered and Jaskier forced himself to stay relaxed, crouching to gather the last few coins. “They live among us, but still keep only to their own!”

Jaskier let the idiots rave, something about dwarves making up banks to cheat on true people and destroy Redanian Post Bank. He turned slightly to the girl, putting the last few coins into a purse he emptied when visiting the bank before he held it out to her. No sooner did she grab it, he had to raise an arm to keep a metal chain from hitting the poor thing. He hissed through his teeth as it wrapped painfully around forearm and barely caught the end before it tied itself in place.

He pulled it immediately, setting his legs against the uneven stones of the street and felt petty satisfaction when he managed to hold in place. He waited and when the man tried to loosen it to pull again, he jumped forward. He grabbed the loose chain and shrugged it off his arm to throw it at his face. Then he scrambled back, relieved to see the family used the distraction to run into the crowd and disappear.

Something was wrong, with the sound that chain made and the way the sun glinted off of it. Best to keep his distance. He grabbed onto his knife, grinding his teeth when he saw the third man come closer, an axe in his hand.

It wasn’t much of a fight, barely even a brawl. Jaskier moved around to avoid getting massacred and cut here and there, hoping to slow them down with pain if not blood loss. He did fine for a while, but he was never a fighter, all he had was his stamina from traveling by foot and what meagre training he had in the last months.

The swinging axe forced him to step between a chain laid on the ground and he noticed too late to jump away. It pulled taut on his legs and he fell to the ground, his head ringing as it hit the stone.

“Nuff dancing round!” the chain man grabbed his hair, pulling him up and another one’s booth crushed his wrist to steal his blade. He cursed through the pain, using his free hand to push himself high enough to crane his neck, so his own knife won’t slit his throat open.

Then terrified screams of  _ fire _ filled the street. It served as a perfect distraction. Jaskier moved and bit down on the fingers holding his blade, catching it quickly when it was dropped. He spit out blood and twisted around to stab at the arm of the man holding his hair.

He hit the cobblestone again, his back flashing with pain, but he forced himself to his feet. The last man tried to run for him, a short dagger in his arms, but then a gust of air all but threw him at the wall.

Jaskier would’ve wept when he saw Geralt if his witcher didn’t grab his crushed wrist. He kicked at him with a surprised scream and stumbled back, blinking away pain and hearing only buzzing in his ears.

Something shone brightly, too brightly and he moved before thinking about it, pushing between Geralt and the incoming chain. He blinked when it bounced against air, but had little time to wonder about it when Geralt grabbed his other arm and pulled him along into a run.

The street was still full so they escaped to the first narrow street, Geralt almost dragging him. Jaskier cursed when after another turn they were faced with a dead end.

“Where now?” he leaned against the wall and moments later groaned when he saw the stubborn fools that somehow kept with their pace, coming from around the corner. Geralt put himself before him, sword out, but Jaskier didn’t want him to fight, didn’t want this situation to become fuel for this conflict when Geralt’s reputation was still so uneasy.

He heard rumours, of course, about some fanatics trying to create a  _ witch hunters’ _ legion. It was mostly few dickheads with too much free time and scantily any brain cells, roaming the streets and pestering non-humans. That they festered on the beliefs of Eternal Fire wasn’t surprising, people always took to gods and supernatural to excuse their obsessions and extremism.

At least most idiots in the cult kept it to ranting between themselves or giving glares, not harassing people!

Jaskier cursed and looked at a stone wall behind them. Geralt could probably get them over there, but the fanatics looked strong enough to just follow them. It wouldn’t help them unless they truly escaped and all that was behind that wall was housing district, few shopping alleys and the bridge to-

“Bridge!” he jumped forward and had to swivel back, grabbing onto Geralt’s clothes as the witcher stroked back against a chain that almost wrapped around his neck.

“The what now?” he hissed, sending a blast of wind to keep their meagre distance.

“It’s _ Friday _ , right?” Jaskier grinned. “Get us over and if we run north, we’ll reach…”

“…Borsody’s.” Geralt nodded.

Before Jaskier could blink, he was pulled to his witcher’s side and another wave of Aard sent them into the air. He bit down on his scream, trying to keep his stomach in place as Geralt kicked off the stone wall and they landed on the other side.

“Never again.” Jaskier gasped in a breath and slapped at Geralt’s arm before grabbing onto it to keep up on shaky feet. He cursed when he heard shouts and scraping against the wall. “They  _ do not _ know when to give up.” He grumbled and let Geralt pull him forward again, grinding his teeth through the pain.

They run as fast as they could, soon blending into the crowd by the Auction House.

“That chain was wrong.” Was the first thing Jaskier said. “Something was wrong with it and they tried way too hard to get it to touch those elves. Or you.”

Geralt nodded, moving his heads as he listened in. Jaskier wondered how well he heard the people around, how far out and how badly it hurt to be in the crowd, if he could still smell the blood or that metal or if that’s how he found him.

“We need to hide.” He sighed and grabbed Geralt’s hand. His other hand was hurting slightly less, so he hoped he’d get away with a bruise or something. “Come on, I know a place.” He said, tone resigned as he pulled a stiff witcher towards Passiflora.

It was weird to pay for an empty room and no company, but he saw how awful Geralt looked with just the cacophony of the crowd, now breathing through clenched teeth in the heavily perfumed brothel.

He pulled him up the stairs and into a room, in there making a run for to open a window and reaching for a bottle of bath salts in his bag. They weren’t strong, that’s why he bought them, so he put the pouch to Geralt’s face to drown out other smells.

“Better?” he asked gently and sighed with relief when Geralt nodded.

“T-too much.” He grunted out and let Jaskier push him into a bed.

The rest of the day was awful. Jaskier’s hand got covered in some salve that made it feel better, but he was still infuriated. Especially after he related everything that happened to Geralt and was only met with resigned grimace.

At least he learned about demeritium. That’s ought to come in handy, either in fights or if he ever has to deal with some mages less agreeable than Triss. There was still that one egoistic bastard from Ban Ard he planned to ruin as soon as he figured out how to do it best.

Fucking cults. As if they didn’t have enough problems!

“Why here?” Geralt gave him  _ a look _ . It was much later in the evening and he had to use the mirror by the bath, hoping Jaskier would notice, or risk getting water in his face.

Jaskier rolled his eyes and continued washing out his hair. Honestly, does he never touch them anymore between the times he does this for him? He deserves all the courting braids for that.

“After running from Oxenfurt I’ve spent a few weeks here. No easier job for a freshly disgraced noble than spreading their legs.” He shrugged and reached for more water. “I grew thick skin against insults and learned the most wondrous way to make love without worrying about food or the roof over my head. It gave me time to finish my songs so I could actually start as a bard…”

“Why?” Geralt sat up, shaking water from his hair before looking at Jaskier, somewhere between worried and confused.

Jaskier raised an eyebrow.

“What, you think anyone can just sing whatever?” he snorted. “Might be true about your local drinking jig, but famous songs are private, to an extent. I’m an exception cause I care little for who praises your name beside me, as long as it helps your image... although I push myself into the lyrics and only allowed it after the striga. So nobody can try and pretend it’s their own exploits.” He explained and pushed Geralt back into the water, to finish washing his hair. The amount of tiny little legs he had to pick out from them was disgusting. “Besides, I’m also a travelling bard, we usually share to spread out names, but others prefer to keep stable jobs if they can. Nothing gets you kicked out faster than making the noble who sponsors you look like they got a cheap imitator. Those with enough money to waste on personal troubadour usually want something one of a kind.” He shrugged.

Jaskier let Geralt hog the bed for now, sitting by the window to look at the street, watching over people milling around. He could see the courting tree from here, the bright flowers blooming all over it. Nobody knows what type it is – the long wines look like a willow, but the branches and trunk are white, the flowers blooming from spring to autumn in clusters like mistletoe. Then, when cold enough weather hits, the leaves turn from bendy to limp and slowly become silver as the flowers wilt away within a few days. The sight of leaves falling soon after that is simply magical – he was able to see it just once, after running from Oxenfurt, from the very same window.

They said it’s been planted with the seeds from before Conjunction and it became a point of pride for Novigrad. He hoped to visit it, actually… to try and get over Geralt.

The ritual is simple. Women write down the name of their lover next to their own and then tie the paper onto a branch. If the man finds the paper, they court and wed in winter. If the paper’s still there when the leaves fall, the love’s not meant to be.

It was silly, but he hoped that maybe leaving their names there would help his feelings pass… he didn’t want them to ever give them trouble.

He sighed and looked at his bag, rubbing his fingers together. They’d have to go by his room later, to get his things and lute, but he had the last shopping spoils with him, among them a new bridle for Roach, because the one she had was getting worn down. Too many close encounters with grabby monsters and too many times she had tried to bite through it when tied down.

He wasn’t gonna sleep anyway, too worried about the church’s people finding them even here. He stood up and took out the bridle and then the embroidery set and began slowly replicating silver leaves and bundles of flowers on the leather.

Might as well be a productive insomniac, right?

Their stay in Novigrad was just cut extremely short, obviously, but one afternoon of relaxation wouldn’t hurt them. It was better to wait out the idiots, in case they were stalking by..

They sneak out in the evening and make a quick stop at the inn Jaskier stayed at before heading for the harbour. He wakes up a merchant who owed him to get them a ride on his boat. The only delivery was to Cintra, with a short stop in Skellige, which wasn’t ideal, but better than dealing with fanatics.

They both ended up by Roach’s side to keep warm and to keep her calm. She didn’t protest boarding the boat, but she was skittish and Jaskier would gladly suffer some stiff muscles in the morning to keep her well.

“What did he owe you?” Geralt asked after a while.

“He pushed his son to the academy. Some girl lied he  _ killed her rabbit _ so I swore up and down I was the guilty one. Then the baby came out as ginger as can be and the library janitor was famous for his red hair, so her reputation was ruined and nobody innocent was hurt. Never thought I’d be glad my parents were such suspicious fucks that they kept pushing off the wedding till the kid was born. Would’ve expected them to sooner slip her a potion to get rid of the problem.” Jaskier explained, smiling at Geralt’s face.

“Why rabbit-?”

“It’s improper to discuss such things, Geralt. Young ladies call it decently, saying her rabbit died or something as stupid.” He rolled his eyes and closed them. Roach was warm and the flowers in her willow weave smelled sweetly enough to cover the salt of the sea and the stench of cured food in the crates. “What was that spell? That bounced the chain away?” he asked, brushing finger through her mane.

“…Quen. A shield.” Geralt sounded hesitant, so Jaskier just waited, humming absentmindedly. “There are six.”

“Hmm…” Jaskier focused a little. “Aard is the wind, Igni summons fire and Axii can take over the mind of anything sentient… what are the othets, exactly? Quen and…?” he let his voice trail off.

Geralt hesitated again, moving around for a little, probably pretending to check if their things were still safely in one place.

“Quen, Heliotrop and Yrden.” He said finally, settling back down, much closer now. Jaskier pulled up the blanket and smiled when his witcher sat by his side and let him lean in, now warmed by two bodies. “Heliotrop creates a shield for a moment, Quen one that lasts until it’s hit by something. Yrden puts down a trap that will keep you in place with magic.”

Jaskier frowned and little and opened one eye.

“Why don’t you use them too?”

Geralt looked at him like Jaskier should get it on his own, but he was too tired to think.

“Come on, be nice and explain this time.” He poked at the witcher until he caught his hand to keep it in place. Jaskier hid his smile in the blanket, because jokes on Geralt, he was now keeping it warm.

“People understand wind or fire and I prefer to use Axii inconspicuously, but others… it’s harder to explain why things happen seemingly on their own. It’s safer to keep it out of the public eye.”

Jaskier hummed again and huddled closer, trying very much not to call it cuddling. Especially not out loud, he’d probably just hear that witchers don’t cuddle and get shoved away to sleep on his own.

He preferred how things were now.

“I don’t care.” He said finally. It probably didn’t count for much, but the way Geralt squeezed his hand was nice.


	25. In which Geralt goes broke.

They end up staying in Skellige for a while. The summer heat isn’t as bad on the island and there is something out there killing off fishermen, the lighthouse master offering anything they’d ask for in exchange for Geralt just finding out what it is. Jaskier had no objection, feeling safer with the open waters separating him from Kerack. He'd be better on the other side of the Content, but between Skellige and Cintra he’d choose the islands.

He could only imagine how much trouble would come from bringing Geralt to elves-slaying Queen of Cintra. Or him after the Order of the Flame surely spread out rumours about his betrayal of fellow humans or some other tripe.

They’re invited to stay in the spare room of the lighthouse. A week passes by, Geralt going out in the morning to try and hunt down whatever’s hunting around and Jaskier wasting days away.

It must be the feeling of uselessness that does him in. At least that’s his excuse when Geralt asks him how did he end up in a cell.

“Turns out it’s not the best choice to attack a royal mage.” He snorted, trying to rub out the salt from his face and the bruises from his wrists. He managed to punch the bastard a few times before being flung into the water and it doesn’t feel nearly enough.

Geralt sighs and leads Jaskier out. He tries to turn them to the lighthouse, but Jaskier’s not in the mood for home. He’s on a warpath!

“You could just not.” Geralt grumbled, but walked after him and Jaskier promised himself to pay it back to him, somehow.

The grumbling stopped as soon as he was back at the market right by the cliffside. The mage was still there, strutting about, a cage filled with little bright, fluffy birds the size of a palm.

“What are you doing back?” The mage gave Jaskier an irritated look, but then smiled at the sight of a witcher. It’s the first time Jaskier finds himself hating it. “Hey, you there! Witcher, right? Throw this miscreant back to the sea and you can-”

“Fuck off.” Geralt crossed his arms, only raising a brow at the angry sputtering of the mage. “I kill monsters. Not annoying bards.”

Jaskier slapped him on the arm.

“I resent that.” He mumbled, but then turned to the mage. “Talking about monsters - Geralt? Those are sea sparklers, right?” he said, voice colder than the winds coming from the sea.

Geralt looked over the birds and Jaskier’s heart sank when he saw the moment his face closed off, as if he was preparing himself for dealing with the worst. But this was simple, the sparklers were magical birds, sure, he read about them in Ban Ard, but there was a ban on selling them since they were rare and breed so infrequently!

The bastard had to know where a nest was and raided it after hatching. The little fluffs couldn’t even let out the signature trill to alert the parents, so they couldn’t be older than a few days!

“What of it, bard?” Mage threw him a glare. “I cannot sell this thing’s corpse, either whole or in parts, but  _ live ones _ are perfectly fine.” His smile was utterly vile. “You’ve got something against poor fisherman getting protection against storms?”

Jaskier froze, throwing Geralt a desperate stare. This couldn’t be true, who in the world would leave such an obvious loophole?! But all his witcher did was clench his fists, turning his head the other way.

“Protection?” Jaskier snorted with disbelief. “From what, storms you’ve caused by stealing the hatchling and pissing off their parents, so they bring down the hail and thunder?! Just so you can get a few coins on the side?!”

“Law is law.” The mage grabbed a hatchling from the cage and snapped its neck. “Look at that, dead and worthless. Oh well.” He threw it into the sea with a shrug and Jaskier felt his blood boil, fingers wrapping around the hilt of his knife.

“Leave it be.” Geralt grabbed his arm and dragged him away.

For a moment Jaskier was too shocked to react, before rage came back and he twisted out of the witcher's grasp, stumbling on his feet.

“How can you-?”

“Leave it be!” Geralt growled this time, eyes bright yellow. Jaskier ground his teeth, fingernail biting into the leather wrapping before he let go of the knife.

“I won’t have him torture innocent animals for profit in front of me!” he argued, stubbornly, but keeping his voice quiet.

“And I won’t have you cast out from three kingdoms because you pissed off a royal mage over some birds!”

Jaskier froze at Geralt’s words, looking at him properly over the fog of anger. His eyes were still pools of gold, his pupils tiny slits like he was ready for battle. His fists shook, clenched so tight the veins bulge under the skin, his arms stiff and hunched over.

“Fuck.” Jaskier ran a hand through his hair and leaned against Geralt, leaning his forehead on his arm. “Sorry, just- I  _ hate _ bastards like this!” he mumbled, anger fizzling out as guilt flooded his chest.

Just what on earth was he doing…?

They just escaped Novigrad because he threw himself into conflict and now he was doing it all over again. When will he learn? When will he ever start thinking before he acts, before he brings trouble down their heads because he’s too emotional to keep a steady mind?

“I know.” Geralt sighed, jabbing lightly at his ribs. Jaskier turned his head, mumbling curses into witcher’s armour and tasting the sea-salt sticking to the leather. “I figured what’s wrong. A selkimore, I’ll get it tomorrow and we can leave.” He added, tone infuriatingly gentle as guilt settled heavy in Jaskier’s stomach.

He bit his lip, forcing himself to think.

“So we’re staying just today, right?” he said slowly, weighing out his options. “And leave tomorrow afternoon?”

“As soon as I get back and clean up.”

Jaskier smiled, knowing all too well what face Geralt was probably making. Some monsters were always messy, like the scurvers of bloedzuigers. It still had to be done, but it meant a bath was a must afterwards.

So next day, okay. Geralt mentioned three kingdoms, so the mage couldn’t be from Cintra or Skellige, but a kingdom big enough to force both to follow their ban. He’d known Jaskier if he was from Ciradris, that he was sure of, and Temeria has their  _ lovely _ Triss. So probably Kaedwen, Aedirn or Redania, which are all far enough that even if the bastard left on the next boat, he’d be back in 3 days at most. Jaskier heard enough arguments at home, about the long shipments and what a mess it was to investigate anything.

So whatever Jaskier did, as long as he kept his cool enough not to make the mage waste time and energy on a portal, they’d be long gone before he came back with any actual order. He knew already the mage was mediocre at best, otherwise he’d never get a chance to hit him once, let alone five times before being thrown away.

Whole mess would still be a little troubling, forcing them to stay away from the coast for a while, sure, but they were doing it already. Mages had influence, but no ruler would care about their wounded pride for too long if there was no actual danger.

So Jaskier took a calming breath, then turned on the spot and marched to the mage. He swung with his hand, smiling when it made the bastard flinch, but stopped his hand before his face.

“Here.” He opened his palm and let the purse dangle from his fingers. “I will buy all of them, right now.”

The mage looked startled before that vile smile was back on his lips.

“Well, of course you understand that due to your previous behaviour, the price will be-”

“Unchanged.” Jaskier raised an eyebrow.

_ Just like home _ , he kept reminding himself.  _ Treat him just like any royal bastard and scream about it later. Pretend you’re all at court and every words might kill your future, because it’s fucking true. _

“You’re a royal mage.” He added swiftly, before the mage could respond. “Your every transaction is recorded to pay back taxes to the crown, aren’t they?” he smiled, bright as sun and with all his teeth. Royal upbringing sometimes did come in handy.

The mage grumbled and then looked over Jaskier’s bank slip for ages, as if he expected the official seal to just melt off if he held it up to the sun long enough. To his dismay it stayed up, so all he could do was put down the numbers and calculate the final price.

It’d be steep, Jaskier knew it, but he also knew it was only half of his savings at most. He’ll live, he’ll make up for it somehow, he’ll go and prance in every court in the Continent if he has to, but he won’t let this-

He frowned at too low a price.

“Did you miscount?”

“Not at all.” Mage put away the slip and then reached an open hand with a smirk. “With your attack I will require… insurance. Who knows if you’ve even got this much and didn’t just nick the purse from some poor soul?”

Jaskier bit down on the insults that wanted to spill out, feeling a cold shiver run down his spine. He had some money on him, but nowhere near enough since they were supposed to stay in Novigrad long enough for him to earn it, and the bastard must’ve known it. He wouldn’t be surprised if he bribed his way to look over the record of his belongings as he was locked up to calm down…

“Here.” Geralt was suddenly right behind Jaskier, his purse hitting the mage in the chest before he scrambled to catch it. “Please count.”

The mage did, with reluctance, just as Jaskier quickly tallied his own purse. He watched the man count and by the end he kept coins in his own hand, easily calculating how much will be missing by sight. He didn’t spend years as a bard in taverns and streets for nothing, learning to know whether he should stop with a glance was crucial.

“Here.” He pushed the missing cost to the mage’s hand as soon as he put down the last coin. “Now it’s all fine, right?” he smiled again, teeth clenched to keep himself from saying anything more.

The mage gave them both a dirty look before finally nodding.

“Joy to be doing business with you.” He said, tone petulant, before he started gathering his things to leave. Jaskier waited it out, leaning back to press against Geralt and focusing on the relief brought from not being pushed away.

He gave himself a while after they were alone before he turned around.

“I’m sorry. Now we’re broke.” He mumbled, face flushed with shame. He kept calmer, but what did it help if they still got screwed because of his inability to just let things go?

He flinched when he saw a hand coming, but it only poked at his cheek, once and twice and more until Jaskier swiped at it, looking up. Geralt was smiling, tired and indulgent, but honest.

“Either you paid or a sudden wind threw it off to the sea.” He said quietly.

Jaskier made a face at that before leaning against Geralt again.

“I’ll pay you back, I promise.” He sighed and forced out a smile. “Now what do we do?” he looked over at the cage, the fluffy birds scrambling over each other.

Geralt sighed at that.

“They won’t survive long. This young they need to eat every few hours, it’s a wonder they’re still alive.”

“He must’ve fed them. To keep them alive long enough to profit.” Jaskier growled.

It wasn’t rational, it just hit too close to home, to memories of his parents barely tolerating an unwanted child, all to have an heir and to keep their titles.

“They might live if they’re put back to the nest.” Geralt admitted “But since they nest out in the sea-”

“I’ll help!” a girl jumped from a low window of a building near them, her boots splashing water from a puddle on the ground. “I know ‘ere he got ‘em ‘cause I got him ‘ere!” she talks so fast it was a wonder she didn’t bite out her tongue, wringing out her hands. “Didn’ like ‘im, but ma told me go so I went an’ I take you, too!”

Jaskier bit his lip, toying with his purse nervously, but the girl shook her hand, a braid swinging around her face.

“No no, no pay! Jus’ to piss ‘im off.” She assured and Jaskier chuckled at that.

They set out quickly, before the birds starved. The boat was tiny, the cage taking up the middle and front with Ira sat by the stern, hand never leaving the tiller. Geralt was given the paddles and Jaskier was forced to keep between his legs, to keep the weight even. It means he spent a few hours leaning against Geralt, feeling his every move and thinking very intently about the time he was sick and felt every clump of phlegm going down his throat to prevent unsavoury thoughts.

At least they did find the lone rock on the sea easily, broken shells still there and rumblings of an oncoming storm around. Jaskier marvelled over the way Ira was able to navigate there so easily, ignoring the cheeky grin she had when she watched him let out the birds with Geralt or how she played with her braid.

They weren’t doves, but the sentiment was unmistakable.

He tried to ignore the quiet voice that reminded him that Geralt paid for his mess and worried only about Jaskier’s ban and every other little thing that was happening. It was Geralt’s friendship and nothing else, his witcher had a surprisingly big heart when you took the time to worm your way into it.

And Jaskier was not gonna squander it because he can’t control his feelings. He just got a painful lesson about how well things go if he listens to his heart.

He won’t repeat that mistake.


	26. In which Jaskier plays dumb.

Jaskier looked at the letter in his hands as if he could force the words to change. The thick parchment felt searing on his skin and the wax holding the royal seal seemed to glare at him, not leaving his eyes even as he closed them.

“Fuck!” he hit his head against the wall and tried to keep his breathing level.

Why did he even try to get into Cintran court? Why did he charm up that stupid mage at Elaina’s house? Why didn’t he ever think about something beside his own pride?!

Why did he even take the letter from the lighthouse keeper, why hadn’t he thrown it into the sea…?

He flinched at the pounding at the door and hid the letter away before going to turn the key.

“Linur’s back!” It was the son of the tavern’s owner, his face pale. “J-just him…”

Jaskier sighed and grabbed his writing set.

“Come on then, let’s go hear what happened, hmm?” he ruffled Peter’s hair and then locked the room before following him down the stairs.

He listened to the story, greedy for every detail, because getting them from Geralt could still be like pulling teeth. He talked about the monsters often, sure, but Jaskier couldn’t really put that into songs. It wouldn’t feel fair to Geralt, so earnestly educating him about his life. Not to mention running the risk of people getting too full of themselves, learning a bit and trying to fight monsters on their own and getting killed. Or, gods forbid, some mage or Eternal Flame fanatic using witchers’ hard-learned knowledge to steal their jobs!

No, best to embellish and spin fantasies that bear no useful information.

He did tense for a brief moment, hearing about Geralt being swallowed whole, but forced the smile to stay on his face.

“Nah, he’s fine.” He said, as much to convince people as to keep himself believing it.

He still felt a flood of relief when Geralt came in, even bathed in gore and angry.

“Geralt!” he jumped to his side and ignored the suspicious glare he got. “Glad to see you in one piece, sea air makes proper mourning a real chore.” He grinned and pulled out a bottle of vodka to exchange for his beer.

It was nice enough, but would not burn away the taste of selkimore.

He got cold feet, then, at the thankful sigh Geralt made and the way he let himself be dragged upstairs for a bath. How could he demand he perform as his escort and convince him to do so under false pretence without making him feel used, especially after yesterday’s fiasco with the birds?

He broke when they were both in bed, Jaskier brushing his hair before braiding.

“Say, we heading anywhere special now?” he asked, almost throwing the words up.

Geralt somehow gave him the look without turning properly or even opening his eyes. Jaskier hated that he could do it, squirming on the bed and almost dropping the comb and powder.

“I’ve got a job.” he said finally. “In Cintra.”

“Hmmm.” Geralt moved his head to glance at him. “Where exactly?”

“In  _ Cintra _ .” Jaskier repeated with a resigned sigh. “A-and I know you loath courts, but it’ll be days of free food and lodging, right? It’s perfect occasion to save up, I’d pay you back for the birds right away and-”

“It’s fine.” Geralt sighed and relaxed again, pushing against the comb.

Jaskier blinked, surprised, but went back to brushing by habit.

“That- went better than I expected?” he asked slowly, not wanting to risk pissing Geralt off and making him change his mind.

“I can just hide in the shadows again.” Geralt smiled briefly. “Got a name to go under already, in fact.”

“…how many names do you have?” Jaskier pulled at his hair in revenge. “Here I was, worrying myself to death over keeping my own a secret and you prance around with a whole arsenal?”

His laugh was a little fake, but Geralt didn’t comment on it.

“It’s Ravix of Fourhorn, invited by the queen herself to celebrate her daughter's fifteenth birthday.”

Jaskier snorted.

“Right.” He put the comb down and got to braiding. “And the truth?”

Geralt smiled briefly.

“She wanted me to kill a monster haunting her daughter.”

Jaskier frowned, twisting hair between his fingers. It was growing out again and he had to work it into the plaits slowly.

“Please tell me she at least doesn’t know you fucked off without doing it.”

“…the name might not hold water, now that I think about it.”

Jaskier sighed.

“Just let me dress you up and you can go in as my company, okay?” he tied up the first braid. “I’ve got some clothes that will fit you and nobody cares who bards bring in as protection. Now spill, how many more names do you have?” he went back to the previous topic, not willing to let it go.

“None. Elves insists on calling me Gwynbleidd out of spite, but that’s it.”

Jaskier chuckled.

“They do like to sound pretentious, don’t they?” he shook his head and focused on the braids.

They had to leave right after dinner, after a short sail reaching Jaruga’s estuary. They anchored on the northern side, so they had to stop in Nastrog for the night. Jaskier used the chance to buy a few things, after taking stock of what he had.

There was a lot to take into consideration when going into Cintra. The queen was ruthless and with the betrothal will be even more brutal to assert her will. The less attention he and Geralt garnered, the better.

The clothes and lute, those were most important. The names less so, as long as they went in and he had enough songs to stay far away from dangerous topics. Like witchers or elves or monsters or magic at all.

He was trying to match one of the few ribbons available to the grey-blue of the doublet when Geralt left, saying something about his own shopping. Jaskier threw his purse to the witcher, not even looking up to see if he caught it.

Pay for Selkimore was mostly the free travel back to the mainland, so he was still adamant about paying for whatever was needed. There wasn’t much left after he paid for all he needed here, but they managed worse and his pay in Cintra should tie them over until he can reach a branch of Vivaldi’s bank.

Worst came to worst, he can always go to any bank and use his title. He still has access to family money, his parents ready to drag his name through the mud, but never to truly disown him, not when they cannot have another kid anymore. He always knew about it, desperate enough to check before he ended up in Passiflora, but ever enough to actually use it.

If it was for Geralt, he wouldn’t think twice.

He finally just picked a black ribbon and put it away with the rest of the shopping in his bag before looking after his witcher. Just in case, not that he suspected him of trying to bolt, of course.

He saw him stand by a candy stall and noticed the merchant’s pleasant face become furious when he turned, before he picked some chocolate from a crate on the ground. Jaskier knew them, even from this distance – the little scrap of black fabric with blue ribbon, with a few chocolate disks inside.

The pity chocolates given for pennies to those who find themselves alone after the end of a festival which starts this evening. He could guess why Geralt got them –asking for cheapest, being a witcher, looking wrong, being an outsider. Anything or all or even more reasons.

That’s why he made sure to strut right up to him and lean over his arm.

“And what are you wasting money on, hmm?” he joked and reached for the fabric bag, but waited with fingers right at it. “Can I? Or do we share?” he smiled at the sour face of the merchant. “I got them a few times as a child, they’re not sweet at all, you should like them too. Too bad we can’t stay for the festival…” he added, to make it obvious he knew the chocolates and what they meant.

Geralt shrugged him off, but did open the bag to take out a few pieces for himself before throwing the bag at Jaskier.

“Hey!” he caught it easily and took a piece for himself. “Come on, I haven’t got your-  _ no you don’t! _ ” he grabbed him by a wrist when he tried to throw his purse too, his voice a little too panicked for his own liking. “Do not throw around what we have left.” He mumbled, looking away and kicked at a stone.

He was still angry at himself, stewing in angry silence as they passed stalls around them. To the point that Great caught him by the scruff to keep in place.

“What now?” he grumbled, Geralt only pointing to the side.

“Mister Julian, sir? “ Young girl stood by a stall filled with fruits, both fresh and dried.

Jaskier frowned for a moment before grinning.

“Sina, right?” he remembered a girl he played with under the stall as his parents shopped. “Where’s your-?” he cut himself off as her face fell. “Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry…” he moved to hug her, petting at her hair absentmindedly as she clung to him for a moment.

“A-a shipment. Went down with them.” She whimpered, rubbing at her eyes to “Here, t-they promised, right?” she pulled something from her bag and pushed it into his hands.

Jaskier looked down and easily recognised the sweet-fruit he got as a child.

“Oh, right… my parents ordered them, right?” he bit his lip. In no way could he afford it now, but he didn’t want to just leave Sina like that. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t really affo-”

“I-it’s fine!” she closed his hands around the bag and pushed him back to the street. “They dried them when you didn’t show up so they’re fine. T-take them.”

Jaskier never hated his parents more than in this moment. It was petty and in the grand scheme of their crimes inconsequential, but really!

He could at least understand what they did to him, it was scumbaggery at its finest, but it served its purpose to give them a meek, mindless little heir to use for politics.

Not even sending out a notice to rescind a stupid order of fruits was just- such a small thing. Like purposefully ordering your driver to hit every puddle with your carriage so people on the streets would get soaked. Which they did, whenever it rained, so it should not still surprise him, but somehow it did and he wanted to strangle something-

He choked when he was held up by his collar again.

“What am I, an unruly kitten?” he shook the witcher off and glared at Geralt before trying to stop forward on the path, but Roach stood in front of him. “You too?” he snorted, but felt a tiny bit of anger dissolve as he saw late foxglove in the weave at her bridle, the flowers somehow still fresh despite being put there weeks ago.

He sighed and rested his forehead against Roache’s neck, wondering what happened to the wreath he gave Geralt. He hoped that at least it wasn’t used as practice for fire spells.

“What happened?” Geralt came close, reaching out to rub a clumsy hand on Jaskier’s back. He wanted to shake him off again, but forced himself to relax instead.

He was supposed to work on controlling his feelings, not giving into them all over again.

“Sina’s parents were merchants. I snuck out to play with her when my parents came to Nastrog’s festival and once she gave me a weird fruit.” He shook the bag with the dried fruits and then pushed it at Geralt. “Sweet-fruit, they called it, making lemon taste like candy after you ate it. They were opening new trade routes far south and looked if people would buy it. My parents, snobs that they were, ordered it and never bothered to rescind it after-” he cut himself off and hid his face against course mane.

That year was the last thing he ever wanted to think about. Let alone talk. It was months of hell on earth and if he forgot it till his dying day it still wouldn’t be enough, but-

“After what?”

Somehow, when it was Geralt asking, his tongue didn’t want to stay still.

“They lost the title, almost.” he took a shuddering breath. “Nearly starved us that year, just to pay demanded taxes after some business crashed and burned.”

He waited for some reaction, anything, but while Geralt still rubbed at his back, there was only silence. He expected it to sting, to hurt, to choke him like it always did, but instead it felt comforting. As if his words hung in the air like flour and were given time to settle, before a stray spark blew everything up.

When he did finally turn he saw Geralt munching on one of the dried fruits, a confused look on his face. It dragged a chuckle out of him and that, somehow, made all his resentment fizzle out again. How was it that it took one common thing from Geralt to make all the world seem better?

“Here. Try it, I wonder if it works as well when dried?” He gave him a waterskin and then barely kept down his laughter when Geralt almost choked on the first sip. His bewilderment quickly turned into poor, childish glee as he took a few more sips.

“Can I keep some?” he asked, looking like he’d be shaking with excitement if he wasn’t a stoic witcher who feels nothing, and Jaskier chuckled again, leaning against Roach to keep upright.

“Sure, t-take it. I don’t m-mind, I’ll even order you more next year, but… why?” he couldn’t help but probe.

Geralt gave him a conspirator smirk.

“Imagine Lambert’s face when I eat lemons like pastry.”

Jaskier did burst out laughing then, sliding off Roach to the ground. Geralt had to pull him up before she stomped on him, but he was smiling too.

This was a tiny thing. Petty, even. And yet it made all the world seem brighter.


	27. It settles.

A disaster. A complete and utter disaster is what happened in Cintra, to put in words milder than tepid water. And of all the disasters Jaskier knew and prepared for – stitching up Nilfgaardian lines onto the clothes to keep people away from them, covering his lute to hide how elven it was, placating people with music whenever tempers run too hot – it  _ had _ to be a magical storm he could do nothing against.

Jaskier was still clinging to Elaina, legs shaking and the lute hanging off his arm from when he struck a jumpy bastard to the head before he killed someone with a sword. The dust didn’t even settle in the room, Geralt's words barely quieted down and Pavetta was still on her knees when he saw his witcher  _ flee _ .

Panic seized his heart, his hands shaking so much he let go of Elaina to stop jostling her around.

She gave him a look as she tried to wipe her face, tired and full of pity.

“Go.” She sighed. “Go and knock him over the head if you have to.” She gave him a little push.

Jaskier let out a laugh, high-pitched and hysterical, the noise easily lost in the shouting match between all the royals that was only getting louder. Yes, best to vanish for a little while at least…

He stumbled to the window and let himself down, cursing when he didn’t land as well as he planned and his ankle twisted painfully. He limped to the kitchen and snuck by them to the stables, easily finding Roach.

He leaned against her and hid his face in her mane, breathing slowly to calm down.

He can do this. They talked about shit like that before, about Geralt trying to push him away and how much he was fed up with it, right? He can do it again, Geralt might be in panicking, but he won’t just abandon him.

Right?

The moment before the witcher reached the stabled stretched painfully, silence ringing in his ears. He sagged in relief at the hurried steps that suddenly halted.

“What a disaster, huh?” he asked, not looking up from Roache’s mane. “Not sure how it could get any worse.”

“Jas-”

“Well, maybe one way!” he cut Geralt off. “Being abandoned would definitely suck, I think.”

“Ja-”

“Not a fan of being abandoned, you know?” He forced himself to look up. “Definitely not in a castle with a queen out for your blood, leaving me as the only scapegoat.” He spelled it out, sighing at the startled look on Geralt's face.

Of course he didn’t even think about it. How long was it since Geralt let someone close enough to have them be in danger like this? How long since anyone was connected to him even when they weren’t together?

Assuming it ever happened at all…

“So here’s the deal, Geralt.” He spoke up again, before he lost energy to go through with this. “You can leave right now and we’ll be perfectly amicable friends, if we ever stumble upon each other. I’ll still sing your praises, but won’t follow you if I’ll have to worry about being left behind whenever I lose the sight of you.” He took a calming breath, trying to remind himself this won’t happen, even if no person on the Continent had ever picked him when given a choice. “Or we can both stay for what I expect to be marvellously public wedding proceedings, forcing Calanthe to play civil to prevent getting into conflict with Temeria since you’re still their hero. Then we can leave together to never step foot in Cintra again for as long as you wish.”

The silence stretched again as Jaskier petted Roach, letting his fingers trail over embroidery on the bridle.

“…I was gonna come and get you.” Geralt spoke up finally, voice so quiet it was almost shy.

“I had no idea of knowing that.” Jaskier snapped, bitter and tired and still terrified of the way Geralt threw himself into the maelstrom without even a glance at him, without care for his damn life, as if he was still the lonely man whose death wouldn’t hurt anyone. “You can’t always expect me to guess what you think, Geralt.”

Silence again, before Jaskier rolled his eyes and walked up to Geralt to hug him, clutching to his clothes. Some stitches broke, buttercup-embroidered fabric bunched up and loose in all the wrong places. His own probably didn’t fare match batter, leaving them both looking like fools.

“Tell me that at least it wasn’t that knight who you spared last time?” he asked and the lack of answer told him all he needed to know. “Well. I sang about the birth of monster children, at least we’re both equally,  _ royally fucked _ .”

That got a huff of a laugh and Jaskier decided it was probably as good as it will get tonight.

Five days before the wedding the ladies in waiting were chosen. The looms were put in a circle in the main courtyard and the silk moths came by the crateful. Jaskier watched over, still keeping distance from anybody just in case. Geralt kept to their room for the most part, playing avoiding games with the queen. Which wouldn’t be as funny if Calanthe wasn’t actually reciprocating, ignoring any and all questions about the witcher and his bard if any nobles even dared to ask them.

At least she wasn’t trying to kill them. Jaskier wasn’t complaining.

“Will you take part?” one of the servant girls stopped by the window Jaskier was hiding in.

He shook his head, but then hesitated.

“Maybe.” He said finally and gave her a small smile. “Cora, right? Let me help.” He jumped to his feet and took one of the baskets full of moths cocoons. “Boiled already?”

“Yeah, the backyard stinks to high heavens.” She shuddered and led him to the courtyard.

He helped out with counting out the cocoons, thankful for something menial to take his mind off of other things. It all took until dinner which he shared with the servant too, curious to learn more about Cintran weddings. Best to know what to expect, it wouldn’t do to have them stumble into courtship in front of the whole court.

It was already risky, letting Geralt keep the pin and the braids. They both could ignore the entire mess because it wasn’t addressed, messing it up now would be- too much. Entirely too much with the way Geralt still looked ready to bolt at first chance.

He did stay, thought. Even made sure to tell Jaskier whenever he wasn’t gonna be in their room, which he didn’t expect, but definitely appreciated.

Noon came, and with that started the weaving. Ladies sat by the looms, spinning the silk for the wedding veils, only allowed to stop with the setting of the sun. There was a pile of blankets in the center, nobles meandering about and few sneaking glances at the heavy fabrics or the ladies.

Jaskier watched it over, strumming his lute mindlessly and trying to come up with something to commemorate the wedding. He had no illusions there was anything on the Continent that could placate Calanthe, but Pavetta deserved a nice gift.

He spent the days like that, coming after breakfast and leaving for supper, watching over as people tried their luck at courtship. It was a sweet tradition, actually – a man throwing a blanket at the back of a weaving lady, her singing as she worked to accept and both dancing after the sunset.

Nicer than  _ some rituals _ he knew of, that for sure.

He  _ still _ couldn’t look at apples the same way!

“…but woven tightly ‘gether were their strings of fate, that strongest winds of misery would ne’er dare to break~.” He frowned, looking at the strings of his own lute with pure contempt as he rubbed his fingers to stave off cold. “Unlike you, cheap pieces of- umff!” he bit his tongue as something suddenly covered his head. He pulled fabric down to see and froze when he recognized the heavy wool from the center of the looms.

“You’ll catch a cold.” Geralt leaned against the stone arch Jaskier hid himself under and then pushed a small box to him. “Here. Might work better.”

Jaskier took it slowly and had to fight down an embarrassing squeal when he saw the  _ ice strings _ .

“Where did you even-? How much did-? You bastard!” he slapped weakly at Geralt’s arm, grin still firmly in place. “Weddings  _ tomorrow _ , you couldn’t get suddenly generous earlier?” he grinned, wrapping the blanket around himself better.

To hell with people watching them, Geralt spent a fortune to get him the best strings on the Continent, he’s not gonna throw a fit over a blanket. He’ll explain later if anyone even asks.

“Wanna wait a moment to hear the difference?” he asked and suddenly noticed how stiffly Geralt held himself. He put the lute down and got up, keeping the blanket up with one hand. “Hey, everything alright?” he frowned, reaching up to brush some loose hair from his face.

Geralt flinched and Jaskier forced himself to not take it personally when he saw the hard set of his jaw and the thin pupils.

“What’s too much?” he asked, as softly as he could, moving a step closer as slowly as possible.

“Silk.” Geralt turned halfway to the courtyard and twitched. “It’s- grating.”

“Shit, didn’t think about it.” Jaskier sighed and put the strings to his pocket before slinging the lute over his shoulder. “Come on, back to the room with you. I need your input on a new song!” he smiled and started out his wedding tune, voice low, but loud enough to hopefully overpowered the sound of weaving silk.

It didn’t bother him, but then he didn’t have to deal with heightened senses. He felt stupid for never wondering why exactly Geralt sequestered himself to the room for last days when he was fine walking around before weaving started.

“Better?” he asked much later, kneeling by the tub and slowly massaging oil into Geralt’s scalp. “I’ll take that boorish grunt as confirmation.” He smiled with relief and shifted, trying to get more comfortable. “You can leave it out for now, the braids might make any headache worse.

“…but I like them.” Geralt mumbled, head pushing against his hand as he craned it back, looking at Jaskier with such crestfallen expression he barely kept himself from leaning down to kiss it away.

“I’ll make something loose then, so you can just take out the pin if the celebrations get too loud.” He amended, holding onto his hair to brush fingers through it. “You leave  _ after _ them, right? I’ll send you off with a plaited masterpiece, don’t worry… as long as you swear to throw Lambert off something high if he tries to touch it.” He rubbed his fingers against Geralt's neck, taking simple pleasure in the way he jolted away with a startled laugh.

It was the only place he was ticklish on and he discovered it by pure accident, so he was careful to never abuse this knowledge.

“Or set him on fire.” Geralt smiled before dunking into the water for a moment.

Jaskier snorted at that, waiting patiently and focusing on every move under the water and reminding himself Geralt can keep his breath for much longer than him. He still relaxed only when his witcher came back up.

“Burning hair stinks, you’ll suffer just as much.” He pointed out. “Replacing something with glue, on the other hand…”

Geralt rolled his eyes and leaned back again and Jaskier picked up a comb. He started humming, low and quiet, still vary of Geralt’s abused hearing. At least the weaving ended already and the celebrations shouldn’t get too much till the actual fast and that they can always leave early. Or hide in the shadows and entertain themselves with mocking badly dressed royals.

He was brushing out powder from Geralt’s hair when he noticed him sniffing. He cursed and jumped from the bed, to close the window.

“They burn the cocoons at midnight, I forgot. Sorry.” He took out the bottle of hair oil and opened it, putting it by the window to scent the air and keep the smell of burning weaving waste away.

Geralt nodded, a sigh of relief almost too loud in the quiet room.

“So what happens tomorrow?” he asked when Jaskier was back behind him.

“Not sure.” Jaskier picked up the combs and finished brushing before he gathered some hair to braid it gently, loose enough it wouldn’t pull as witcher’s scalp and exacerbate possible headaches. “Each lady in waiting made a vail and the groom shall perform seven precoordinated tasks, to prove himself. All in private and we’ll just all wait in a room to see if she comes out with all the vails pinned to her hair. If not, he’s failed which means no wedding.” He explained what he knew and chuckled. “Wonder what insanity Calanthe set up. I do know one Sarnec of Sodden came out with a dagger in his thigh and covered in feathers…”

Geralt huffed out a laugh, not even opening his eyes.

“After that, it’s the fire ritual we need to stay for and gift-giving before the feast. The last one we can sneak out of if you wish.” He added, twisting some hair around to make it thick enough to keep the pin in place. “Here, finished.”

Geralt murmured something and Jaskier only shook his head, pushing him to fall onto the bed. It was sweet, the way Geralt mellowed out after a hot bath and hair wash. At the start he thought it was just the hot baths making him woozy or something, but the few times he managed to drag him to a bathhouse, Geralt stayed tense and alert through every ministration, no matter if it was done by him or a serving girl.

So he could only guess it was the bath, Jaskier himself and them being alone, which did things to his heart that in turn made his mind create decidedly indecent fantasies. He almost felt lucky that his libido took little effort to control, nowadays, else he’d have jumped Geralt months ago and probably scared his poor witcher to the other side of the Continent.

He grabbed his lute and sat by the window, careful not to tip over the bottle of oil. He replaced the strings in his lute, the fire lighting up the whole courtyard and flickering behind the thick glass. He hummed, trying out the new sounds and smiled contentedly.

“To love and hold most dearly, to each ‘nother would swear, as many vicious obstacles tried coming ‘tween the pair, but woven tightly ‘gether were their strings of fate, that strongest winds of misery would ne’er dare to break, would ne’er dare to break, would ne’er dare to break…” he sang, his eyes roaming over the room until they fall on Geralt, taking home there for the night.

Being awakened by hitting the floor was not the nicest way to start a day and Jaskier took great pleasure in cursing out the trumpets that announced the start of the trials. Then he got up and woke Geralt so they could both prepare and come down.

Last thing they needed was to insult the warrior queen that already hates them.

Thankfully they’re not even the last ones to come in and Jaskier quickly drags Geralt to a seat by the wall. It’s deceptively in front, but when the royals will line up bearing gifts and congratulating, there will be enough of a crowd to let Geralt slip away if he’d want to.

The waiting is a little boring, but Jaskier busies himself with the lute to make sure he plays it well enough. He can’t quite bring himself to sing the new song, after last night, but he still has his old contingency plan. In case worst came to worst, he picked a few songs from Skellige, hoping to gain the queen's favour as he distracts people with foreign sound, should anyone start trouble with Geralt.

He was  _ this close _ to using it when Blaviken came up, but he’s glad he didn’t have to.

Pavetta came out grinning, all delicate silks pinned into her braided crown, Duny only a step behind her. Jaskier watched intently as they set out for the prepared log and handsaw.

“What is this about?” Geralt leaned in, whispering quiet enough to not bring any attention to them.

“Fire ritual.” Jaskier smiled, barely able to hear his own voice, which meant it should be enough for a witcher. “She holds the log as he saws it, before they set it on fire. Test of his strength and precision, of her devotion and trust.” He explained.

Geralt’s face told clearly he didn’t get it.

“What does it prove if he cuts off her fingers?”

Jaskier shrugged.

“That they're a poor match, now shush!” he jabbed his tight, not even looking away from the proceedings.

The log was soon cut in half, all fingers accounted for. Jaskier watched Duny set it down on the prepared firepit and Pavetta lit the fires, smiling when rice was finally thrown into the flames.

“Now the gifting begins.” He turned to Geralt and laughed quietly at his startled look.

Right, he felt like crying for a while. He rubbed at his eyes and waved his hand.

“It’s just their happiness, nothing’s wrong.” He assured Geralt and turned away, before he could say too much.

Like whom he imagined, as he watched the proceeding or as they waited for the grand doors to open. Geralt would look fetching in silks dyed the colours of the rainbow…

He shook his head and picked up the lute when his turn came. He started playing, the news strings letting him come as close to the sound he wanted as he’ll ever be able with the lute.

Eist was first to focus on him, Calanthe right after him when first words left his mouth.

“Mín móðir hon er sum ein drotning, hon er sum tað vakrasta lag~” It’s was so on the nose he almost cringed, but no order to drag him out for beheading was made, so he continued the song, slowly, till the end. “Mín móðir hjá tær eg standi, Í hjartanum goymi eg teg.” He bowed low, first to the queen and future king, then to Pavetta and Duny.

“I congratulate the happy couple…” he took a calming breath and kept low, fingers clutching at his lute. “…and speaking both for my humble self and the great witcher Geralt of Rivia, white wolf who rescued princess Adda and a hero of Temeria, we both swear fealty to his Child of Surprise, gifting protection and services of any kind, should there ever come a need for them.” He announced, his heart thrashing in his chest so much his lungs couldn’t take in enough air. At least he could blame his short breath on the singing.

The hall was silent for a terrifyingly long moment and Jaskier was already shifting on his legs, listening in for the sounds of weapons being drawn, but finally he heard the clink of the couple’s toast, the sign his gift was accepted. He almost fell to his knees with relief, but instead forced himself to stand up, bowed again and then marched straight back to Geralt.

Or at least their table, because the witcher was gone already. He desperately tried not to think he just ran.

He did down a cup of wine and then finished Geralt’s, just to calm his nerves. He let himself calm down as he watched nobles come and go with their own gifts, most accepted and some refused. What his eyes always came back to was Pavetta, glowing brighter than the fires behind her and so full of love it seemed to be pouring out of her.

He really hoped she’ll be fine, that both she and Duny will be happy.

The feast started in earnest then, servants bringing food and alcohol, people quickly getting festive and rowdy. Jaskier stayed a while, to not make his gift look like a bribe he’s thrown Calanthe’s way before leaving, but the wine and some of the louder guests quickly go to him.

He found an alcove to sneak into and almost jumped out of his skin when someone grabbed his hand.

“I hate you!” he hissed at Geralt, because of course it was the witcher, before shaking his head. At least he has proof he didn’t just run away, which should not make his heart melt as much as it was trying to right now. “You plan to what, camp behind a curtain till everyone’s too drunk to notice you leave?”

Geralt shrugged and moved a little, so Jaskier could sit down on a small ledge, a vase with some flowers put down onto the floor. It’s stuffy and the stone is cold and he can barely see anything behind the heavy curtain, but he can’t find it in himself to complain.

He does quickly find out that he drank much more wine than he assumed, because soon enough he was leaning against Geralt and yawning between slurred words.

“Ugh, what do they drink here?” he bemoans, stretching until his back popped. “I miss the comfy chair, why did we leave it?”

Geralt only laughed at his misery, which means Jaskier used up all of the focus he had left on jabbing a finger at his cheek.

“You’re mean! Awful, mean… wisher.” A hiccup broke his insult and he let his head fall onto Geralt’s arm, sliding till he almost toppled into his lap.

“How much did you drink?” Geralt laughed and pulled him upright. Jaskier leaned into his arm with a sigh.

“Mhh, nice wince… spicy.” He smiled and craned his head back to look at Gerald, squinting at him till he almost went cross-eyed. “You’re nice! Pretty. Pretty witchy- witty.” He snorted into Geralt’s neck and snuggled closer.

Geralt tolerated it and that was as deep as Jaskier could consider whether he should continue.

“Mhh, pretty and comfy…” he yawned again and closed his eyes.

Geralt said something, but he paid little mind to it because the world suddenly swam. He clung to his witcher’s arm with a whine, even as he was gently shushed and his hair was brushed from his face.

He huffed when his back hit something soft and solid and forced his eyes open.

Oh, the room, they’re back and the bed’s heavenly, but-?

“Whyyyy!” he whined, grabbing onto Geralt’s sleeve with a clumsy finger.

“You can party another time-”

“Nooo!” Jaskier shook his head and closed his eyes when it made his stomach lurch. “ _ Why _ you goooo, stay. Here, com- me? Coffee… cof’me…” he moved his tongue around his mouth until it listened to him again. “Comfy!” he shouted, proud of himself.

There was a snort before the bed dipped down and then Jaskier could finally snuggle up to his witcher with a content sigh. He started humming, mindlessly, without much tune and definitely without any goal in mind.

He fell asleep not long after, comfortably warm with a heavy arm across his waist and a fistful of sleek hair in his hand.

He woke up only slightly less hellishly than the day before, each knock at the door echoing in his skull like a glass ball thrown onto a crystal cup.

“Ughh…” he sat up and shuddered at the nausea, but forced himself to swallow. “Stay, lay, I’mma gedit.” He mumbled, patting Geralt clumsily on his arm and chest.

He almost fell down as he got up over the witcher, but somehow he reached the door.

When he saw Pavetta he had a short moment of wanting to slam them closed right away and ask Geralt to check if he’s seeing things, but he didn’t trust himself enough to stop clutching the frame, so open the doors stayed.

“I hoped you hadn’t left yet. Nobody saw you leave, but since the horse was still in the stables… here.” She smiled and pushed something into Jaskier hands. “

Myrtle, supplied his mind, muddled by the hangover. Myrtle from the wreath that kept bright silks in the bride's hair, given to her ladies in waiting if they found someone to court, as a symbol of good luck in the new relationship.

And she didn’t know they were here, so nobody noticed when they left or to where despite Geralt carrying him and-

Oh fuck, he can’t cry in front of a princess, can he?

Luckily, Geralt saved him from utter disgrace. No that he had much grace to be dissing, if he was honest, still shaky on his feet.

“Thank you, your highness.” Geralt bowed his head a little and then pushed Jaskier back, so he could lean against him. Jaskier sighed in relief when he could use the energy now not wasted on keeping upright on keeping himself from crying.

Damn Cintran wine or whatever it was they served. He wouldn’t be surprised to hear there was Fisstech in his cup! Or poison, he wasn’t sure if Calanthe would prefer them to just die or suffer first…

“Have a good winter.” Pavetta smiled at them both and then left, a servant scrambling after her.

Jaskier was pushed back into the bed and then got a cup of something foul pushed into his hand. But before he could protest Geralt caught his chin and put something dry and hard onto his tongue. It took him a moment of chewing to recognize the taste and he sighed in relief.

He downed the concoction when the fruit would still work and then promptly started cursing when he stabbed the myrtle into his eye.

He glared weakly at Geralt as he laughed off his misery, hissing when the potion made him sober up almost in moments.

“This was  _ vile. _ ” He shuddered and leaned over the bed to spit into the chamber pot, before reaching for the water to wash his mouth. “Do not ever tell me what’s in it.”

Geralt only smiled and sat by his side. Jaskier looked at him suspiciously – he held a comb and looked all too pleased with himself for someone who spent a night being a glorified snuggling pillow and had to care for his hangover first thing in the morning.

“You can always learn to braid your own hair, you know?” he grumbled, but did move and reach for the comb.

He wasn’t gonna refuse Geralt, but nothing stops him from annoying the witcher into admitting what actually got him so glowingly perky.

“And let your hard-earned skill go without praise? How could I devalue such an artist?” Geralt was bloody grinning and then it struck Jaskier.

They leave soon, right after a meal probably. He must just be happy to go and meet his family. He sighed, blaming the evening and myrtle and the sneaking and definitely the weird wine for the mess that was in his head.

“Well, I suppose I should repay you for bringing me back to my room before I disgraced us both.” He said haughtily and smiled a little at Geralt’s snort. He let out the loose braid and started combing out any kinks, before brushing it all.

“And I should thank you.” Geralt said, quietly. “For  _ our gift _ .” He added with a chuckle.

“Had to do something to try and endear her to us enough that we can leave alive. At last  _ this time _ .” Jaskier felt blush creeping at his cheeks and just shrugged, even if the witcher couldn’t see it. “Now sit still or you’ll end up with a mess!” he scolded.

“Yes, sir.” Geralt snorted, but then stilled.

Jaskier made the braid, the movements by now familiar, both soothing and bitter, each pull and twist bringing them closer to the time of parting ways. He wishes the mutagens worked better, so Geralt’s hair would stretch for miles like in a ballad and he wouldn’t have to stop for days.


	28. In which Jaskier gets shot down.

Jaskier leaned against a tree and opened up his pack, hacking into his elbow. He pulled out a cup, waterskin and bottle of honey, mixing it to make a soothing drink. His throat was still killing him even in the summer heat.

He should be grateful to be alive, honestly. The snowstorm surprised him and if someone hadn’t found him in the ruin scattered over Sodden he would’ve frozen to death, but instead got away with two months of delirious fever as he fought off pneumonia. Summer started before he could leave without risking a relapse, since he tried to go as soon as he was lucid enough to put on his own clothes.

Cause clearly he never learned his lesson about  _ respecting winter _ .

At least he was able to drink and eat, to an extent, so he was able to travel at least, even if he needed frequent stops. He felt awful about all the time he wasted, with no way to contact Geralt, since their only agreement was to meet in Buki again two weeks after the first melts.

It’s summer and Jaskier fears that Geralt might think he decided to fulfil his threat from Cintra, about not following him again if he’s so easily spooked. He knew it was irrational, since Geralt should trust him enough to believe his words, but then he’s also so easily misled sometimes, especially when it comes to things he deemed himself undeserving of.

He stood up and brushed off his clothes before setting back onto the trail. He had to keep close to settlements too, which helped replenish the funds after he repaid the family who took care of him, but it also severely restricted his choices and made the path longer when he was already months late!

The only upside was that it gave him steady access to people and rumours. He heard about Geralt in Maribor and managed to track him by stories all the way to the pass between Kestrel and Mahakam mountains, but then hit a week of cold trails before he heard about some witcher going off to the caves and nothing more.

It was the closest he got, an open contract instead of stories from long before. After stocking up on everything from honey to water and dried meat, he set out north and was currently cursing his choice to abandon clearer paths for the sake of staying closer to the mountains themselves.

Honestly, for all the effort he put into thinking before listening to his heart it seems he has never taken into consideration how poor his choice-making skills actually were. He probably stayed alive so long only thank to Geralt and his-

He cursed as he stumbled on some loose rocks, frowning at the dark splotches on the ground. He had no time to react before a familiar swish made him jerk himself up. The arrow still hit, embedding into his thigh and he screamed before dissolving into a coughing fit. He slid to the ground and kept as small as possible, catching a bush nearby to lean it over himself. Brambles cut into his hands, but at least he might die a little later.

Fucking bandits or bad hunters or whoever-

He frowned, biting into his arm to force his breathing to calm down by the risk of suffocating, trying to listen in above the buzzing in his ears.

There was- not a sound, rather a complete lack of it, as if something stilled in place. Then slow, hesitant steps, crunch of leaves and branches much too loud not to be deliberate.

He hesitated, weighting out his options. He was gonna start coughing again soon and his leg was spasming, which means no walking for him. So what does he have to lose?

He looked closer at the arrow and gave a crooked smile at the familiar, weird cut of the fletching.

“Come out before I decide to try and walk to you and probably rip something important!” he laughed, letting go of the brambles. He hissed when little hooks pulled at his skin and gave his hand a disappointed look, as if he didn’t bring it upon himself.

Geralt came slowly and Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat when he saw him. Fresh from the battle, one eye black and other closed shut with blood half-dried over half of his face, sword still in hand and his hair a mess.

He cleared his throat, trying to stave off a cough.

“Will you do something or just stand there?” he waved vaguely at the arrow and then opened his arms with a raised eyebrow.

For a while Geralt just looked at him, more hesitant than suspicious, so Jaskier just waited for him to get over whatever was wrong. He knew it sometimes took time to let him get back from his own mind so soon after a hunt, but giving him an excuse to play a caretaker for him usually worked. He couldn’t even remember how many times he faked a twisted ankle or some other sudden pain just to help Geralt come off the potion high.

“You’re real.” Geralt said finally and Jaskier’s heart broke for him.

Right, magic and illusions and monsters cut into your mind worse than any blade could ever try to tear into the flesh.

“Yes, very real and in quite a bit of pain, so if you wouldn’t mind…” He kept his tone light and reached for the water skin to drink some water. Last thing he needed was to start choking in his breath.

Geralt was still slow and careful, as he came close enough to pick Jaskier up. It helped in keeping his leg from moving as little as possible, but also made Jaskier worry.

Especially when Geralt kept cursing under his breath as he carried him on a path with that witchery grace of his that meant he was barely jostled and could just ignore the pain for a moment.

“I’ll be fine.” He said gently, rubbing fingers against his arm. “You know that, right? It went through and hit the side, after a week I will-”

“We are fucked,” Geralt snapped. That worried Jaskier even more.

“Come on, it’s just a flesh wound.” He waved his hand dismissively.

“You cannot walk!” Geralt hissed, frown deepening.

Jaskier ignored the bad feeling that continued growing and tried to keep him quiet.

“Why is that a problem all of the sudden?” he pulled his head up and tried to look at his witcher, but the best he got was dried blood and nasty cut coming up from his temple. He clung closer to Geralt when they had to cross over a massive, armoured corps of something vaguely resembling a pill bug, trees becoming spares. “I can always just… ride on… oh,  _ Geralt _ .” He gasped as soon as they walked into a small clearing.

Roach laid on the ground, smouldering pieces of wood strewn around, ground marred by deep gashes. Her whole side was ripped open, organs dragged out into a pool of drying blood and  _ bitten into _ .

Jaskier hid his face in the witcher's neck, trying to breathe through his nose.

“I’m so sorry.” He whispered, clutching at Geralt’s hair and petting it clumsily, trying to not break down. Could anything get worse today? This year? Did fate decide the disaster of Cintra wasn’t enough and took pleasure in tormenting them some more?

He kept quiet as he was put down and Geralt took to cutting the arrow so he could clean up his wound. He had no idea what to say, all the pretty words and flowery grief poems sounding cheap and empty.

Roach was always with Geralt. Always! She’d kick at whatever came too close for comfort, she’d let Jaskier braid flowers into her mane, she’d try to pick apples from his hands if he wasn’t careful, she’d deal with any monster she had to carry back from a hunt, she’d-!

He swallowed down a sob threatening to spill from his lips, biting them bloody.

It probably should’ve interested him earlier, how a horse stayed alive so long in such a dangerous lifestyle, but Geralt was always so capable, so powerful, that nothing seemed to truly be a danger as long as one kept close enough to the witcher.

He remembers how close he came to killing her and feels old guilt burn at his throat, a coughing fit following soon after. It startles Geralt, but Jaskier just reaches for his bag to mix water with honey again.

“I had pneumonia.” He rasped as soon as he could. “That’s why I was so late meeting you. Sorry about that.” He bit his lip.

If he was with Geralt, he’d probably have been safe in town with her. Geralt never liked taking her to caves and usually left her with Jaskier, but was very wary of leaving her just on her own for too long.

Geralt just looked at him, again, a piece of wrapping still in his hand.

“I heard you.” He whispered, looking down. “I-it used your voice and I ran like a fool, that’s when the other one got her.”

Jaskier froze for a moment before letting out a wet laugh, his vision blurring.

“S-so it is my fault.” He rubbed at his eyes, but the tears wouldn’t stop.

“No!” Geralt grabbed him by the arm. “I was stupid and let it lure me out. I got her killed, not you.” Each word seemed to cut into him more, so Jaskier just leaned in, pressing forehead to his lips to shut him up.

“C-come on, I’m s-supposed to console  _ y-you _ , darling.” He hiccupped, before being shushed as a hand rubbed at his back.

“I’m used to it. You’re not.” Geralt said simply and sure, Jaskier could see the logic in it, but the thought of Geralt being used to another pain just made him cry harder between coughing.

The evening found them both quiet and subdued. After supper, Jaskier hobbled to Roache’s side, kneeling by her head and refusing to look to the side.

“She probably tried to kick it to death.” He chuckled and rubbed at his eye again. “She was too brave for her own good. Matched you.” He brushed his fingers through her mane, before reaching up to take out the bridle.

He stroked the stitches on the leather and took a shaky breath.

“What do you do? Usually?” he asked after a moment.

Geralt sat down by his side.

“Burn. Buy the next one. Get used to her.”

Jaskier nodded, petting at her stiff neck and shifted, to keep the weight of his wounded leg. Then a new wave of guilt hit him, taking his breath away as he felt a hard stone press against his thigh.

“I-it  _ was _ my f-fault!” he opened the bag and took out the stone, clutching it till his hands shook before he smashed it against the ground, time after time until Geralt’s arms wrapped around him, keeping him in place.

He sobbed out what he got them, a warding stone that he forgot about after all the mess in Novigrad, a protection that he had on his all this time, that could’ve saved her.

Geralt shushes him, rocking in place and reminds him no simple spell could keep out barbegazi, that it would ward against animals and not monsters, that it would’ve done nothing, but Jaskier doesn’t want to listen.

So many miracles happened around them, who’s to say it wouldn’t have worked better than it should?

He must’ve exhausted himself at some point, because the next time he opened his eyes he was laid down on a roll, fire dim by his side and the ground nearby scorched.

He bit his lips till they bled again.

He couldn’t even stay awake to send her off, so what was he doing by Geralt’s side? He was nothing by a burden. He couldn’t even read the weather and almost got himself killed twice by sheer stupidity and impatience!

“Stop it.” Geralt kicked his foot, looking up from sharpening a sword. “I can hear your guilty thoughts. That’s my department.”

Jaskier let out a bitter laugh and sat up slowly. He rubbed at the wrapping under his pants and then pushed against the wound, gasping at the wave of pain.

“Stop it!” Geralt snatched his hand away. “It wasn’t your fault. Blame me, or the monsters, or the fucking world if you need to blame something, but not yourself.”

Jaskier pulled weakly to get his hand back, but Geralt only squeezed harder, so he gave up.

“I-I should help you, not give you more trouble.”

Geralt looked over at the scorched earth before turning back to Jaskier.

“It’s a good distraction.” He said.

Jaskier bit his lip and nodded, watching as Geralt brought fire back to life. He put up water to boil and threw in some herbs,  _ for your cough before you bring the whole forest upon us _ , as if Jaskier needed another reason to cry.

He did notice the warding stone put down on the ground, the painted runes and patterns shining. Geralt caught him at it and sighed.

“It’ll come in handy to keep animals away, but won’t work against most monsters,” he said gently.

_ It wouldn’t have saved her _ is what Jaskier heard, but his mind still refused to believe it, at least for now. Maybe later, when his grief isn’t so fresh. 

“I-I had a cat.” He confessed, curling in on himself. “I thought it was s-sick and asked my father for help. Snapped its neck and said to f-feed it to the hounds.” He coughed, his chest squeezing tight and waterskin was pushed into his hand. He took a few gulps, using the excuse to wipe his eyes. “I swore to n-never get another one. To spare them, but… really, t-to spare myself a-and my bleeding heart.” He admitted, for the first time. “Now I think m-maybe it would’ve hel-”

“It doesn’t.” Geralt cut him off before making a face, hand reaching up to mess with his hair.

Jaskier leaned back and cringed at the sight of the mess it was. Geralt washed off the blood from his eye and face, but did little else for the hair which resembled a bird’s nest.

“Want me to fix it?” he asked after a moment. “For a distraction.” He managed a weak smile.

Geralt hesitated before turning around. Jaskier quickly realized why, when he discovered a braid still in his hair. At least that’s what he thought it was, the plait long-twisted beyond recognition, tied up where it would’ve started getting loose as Geralt’s hair grew, the pin kept in place with another string of leather.

“Didn’t you-?” he started to ask but cut himself off. “I need to shave it around the wound, no helping that… but I could save the braid, after I cut it?” he offered, carefully.

_ Why did you keep it _ might give him too many answers he didn’t feel ready for.

“Sure.” Geralt relaxed visibly and leaned back. Jaskier gave another weak smile and reached for his knife and the comb.

He cut off the braid and then tried to shave the side as neatly as he was able with no experience. He put it aside to be redone and tied up, already having a few ideas what to do with it.

He brushed out every kink and tangle and washed out the last remnants of blood, before going straight into the braiding. He changed the design a little, to take into consideration the shaved side and only realised he didn’t even ask when he was reaching for the pin.

“Sorry, didn’t ask- do you want, or-?”

“I would’ve stopped you otherwise.” Geralt chuckled and Jaskier felt something loosen up in his chest.

He put down the pin and then moved away. He put up the cut braid and started to remake it, keeping one side tied up to not lose a single strand too much and then tied off the other end too.

“Here.” He twisted the leather ties together and put the plait around his wrist. “What do you think?”

Geralt’s smile was brighter than the fire and made everything okay, if only for a moment.


	29. In which Jaskier gets vocal.

Jaskier wasn’t sure about heading to coast, but his cough wouldn’t let up and between Geralt’s herbs and healers’ advice to breath in the sea air, they had little choice unless he planned to really start luring in everything alive as he tried to hack out a lung on the daily.

They had little choice between Novigrad on the south, Blaviken on the north and Roggveen to the west, so they kept to empty beaches and avoided people. They took a small detour by Rinde, Jaskier visiting the bank before they both left with a new Roach.

He didn’t ask which one was it, in the probably long line, and just sweetened up the young mare with apples until she let him put the embroidered bridle on her. The smile Geralt gave him was worth every time Roach attempted to chew on his hair.

The cold, salty air did help him, as did walking along the beaches through the day and eating roasted fish stuffed with healing herbs when he wasn’t drinking their infusion. He assured Geralt he can leave anytime, that he wouldn’t dream of keeping him tied up to him as he recovered, but his witcher didn’t even bother scolding him, just rolled his eyes and asked something benign. He didn’t even remind Jaskier there were potion ingredients he could only get here, so Jaskier finally just stopped worrying.

If he wished Geralt would trust he’d never just leave him, he might as well start learning to trust his intentions too, right?

The walks along the beach were nice, but quickly started to bore him. He was getting back his singing voice, training scales and his lungs by the sea so the sound would bother Geralt less, but it was so familiar it didn’t occupy his mind too much.

Thus, after one day he found a heap of bright seashells washed out in the tangle of seaweed, he started his game.

The patterns were from Prisma and should be done with painted stones, not plain ones and seashells and seaweed and pieces of glass smoothed out by the waves, but drawing lines in the sand to decorate them with pretty trinkets to watch the tides wash them away was local custom.

It was nice. It gave him something to do between singing and a tentative fighting lesson that Geralt still had to be pestered into.

It took a month, but Jaskier was finally feeling fine, but Geralt still refused to leave.

“Come on!” Jaskier sighed, slowly digging a line into the sand with his bare foot. “And get some black ones, too!” he added before Geralt left the shoal.

He still had no idea why Geralt was letting himself be sent out to clean up the beach from any and all decorations Jaskier took fancy to. He always did it with such a self-satisfied, tender look too!

He asked, just once, why he let him waste time like that, and the answer still made him heart lurch.

“You need to recover. If making those make you happier staying here, all the better. I’d move to Blaviken for the next decade if you needed it to get better.” Was Geralt’s answer, because  _ of course it was _ , the witcher scoffing at any romantic songs, but then spewing things worthy of the Oxenfurt’s lecture halls.

He blushed at the mere memory and quickly shook his head. He bent down and tinkered with the centre of the piece and then moved back along the line not to disrupt the rest, stumbling into Geralt as he finally jumped away.

“See? You should rest some more.” The witcher kept him upright and then pushed a bowl of black and white shells into his arms.

Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“I could probably be allowed to perform at Oxenfurt’s atrium, there is no getting better than that!” he whined, but leaned in to start putting down the shells.

There was a questioning silence behind.

“The atrium? The place where the best singers perform and courts chose their personal entertainers from?” Jaskier explained before snorting a laugh. “I wonder sometimes how do you get by, knowing so little about such obvious things,” he teased.

“I’m not a royal screecher,” Geralt huffed.

“ _ Anyway _ , only the best get to sing there and I could probably just walk in right now.” Jaskier smiled with a little nostalgia. “It’s been years, actually, since the streets and taverns don’t really lend themselves to vocalising…”

Now the silence was confused and Jaskier straightened himself to look at Geralt.

“You always sing well. What’s the difference?” the witcher was frowning and Jaskier bit back a laugh.

“Right. You never did hear me properly perform, did you?” he put down the bowl and stretched arms above his head. “Would you wanna? The open beach is good enough and it might finally prove to you I feel fine.”

Geralt gave him a very slow, careful look, as if he expected to see Jaskier suddenly cough again or a bloody kerchief to slip from his pocket.

“Come on, you’ll hear proper singing and then we can leave before I burn into a crisp.” Jaskier rubbed as his neck absentmindedly. The sun and clear skies did little for Geralt, but tanned his skin quite a bit.

Geralt sighed and sat down.

“Fine. Sing and if you don’t mess up we can leave in a few days.” He relented.

Jaskier grinned and came to kiss him on the head, ignoring the warning growl. He emptied the bowl and grabbed a small stone before moving away.

“I'm a little nervous, actually!” he admitted with a chuckle, looking for a nice, flat piece of sand. “So I need a distraction… I got a knotting song from Skellig, it should work, but it’ll be easier if I move too.”

“Knotting?”

“They grab a rope and slowly dance to tie it into a knot that looks like a heart!” Jaskier kicked a few pieces of sea debris away and then stood in place. “That’s how they marry, I suspect there will be tied up rope hanging above Calanthe’s throne right now.” He joked before he could stop himself and sighed at the face Geralt made.

He still avoided even mentioning the child. He knew it was a girl, a young princess, but the message that told them that also said to keep away if they value their heads being attached to their bodies, so he didn’t push to visit for now.

They will have to do something about it though and he hoped Geralt will get over it at some point.

He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths before he started moving across the wet sand, leaving behind footprints of his bare feet as he hit the bowl gently, the sound echoing well enough to replace the drum he should be using.

“Trøllabundin eri eg eri eg, galdramaður festi meg, festi meg…” the words went out easily and he closed his eyes, feeling like he was back in the grand atrium and preparing for his audition. “Trøllabundin djúpt í míni sál, í míni sál! Í hjartanum logar brennandi bál, brennandi bál!” he moved in place, digging his feet into the ground before he continued to move. “Trøllabundin eri eg, eri eg, galdramaður festi meg, festi meg!” he stopped when he tripped over his own feet, taking a shaky breath as he looked over at Geralt. “Trøllabundin inn í hjartarót, í hjartarót, eyga mítt festist har ið galdramaðurin stóð.” He finished, standing still, but kept the rhythm on the bowl as he closed his eyes again.

He let his voice stretch, vocalising with little attention to anything beside keeping it as level as he could. His throat burned a little and his jaw prickled with a need to yawn, but the sound was as clear as when he was a young teen.

He finished only when he ran out of breath and opened up his eyes again. Geralt came closer and the stunned look on his face should probably be insulting, but it only made Jaskier laugh.

“I’ll take it you agree I’m fine to leave?” he teased and jumped over the lines in the sand, the pattern a little messed up, but still resembling a heart as well.

“Right.  _ Fine _ , that’s the fitting word.” Geralt snorted before coming closer. “It was beautiful. Why don’t you sing like that more often? You clearly love to.”

Jaskier shrugged, putting the bowl down and hid hands in his pockets.

“It takes preparation and can go really badly in the wrong place. A street or a rowdy tavern isn’t really the best place for that. Open sea and atrium, sure, even a castle ballroom, but nothing too crowded.”

Geralt hummed, clearly thinking of something as they started walking back to their camp, but Jaskier didn’t press.

“I wish you heard me in school.” He said instead with a wistful sigh. “Before my voice broke I hit the record of the scale! Even got to perform in the atrium as a girl.” He chuckled at the memory.

He agreed to it just to piss his parents off when they visited, unaware of what exactly was his role. He was lucky to have natural talent and got cast right after getting to academy, when the hatred toward his parents was still burning bright.

“What was the song?”

Jaskier hesitated.

“I can try, but don’t blame when you go deaf from my voice breaking.” He warned, but Geralt just smiled at him. “How can you even stand it? Shouldn’t it be too loud or too high?”

Geralt shrugged weakly.

”Depends on the sound.”

Jaskier didn’t press for truth here either and just hummed for a while, trying to remember all the words and the melody before he opened his mouth again:

“Those who have seen your face draw back in fear… I am the mask you wear, it's me they hear.” He kept his eyes away, skipping most of the song since his throat would probably be trashed after either way. No use making Geralt keep them here for another month! “Your spirit and my voice in one combined~! The spectre of Mayorga’s there, inside my mind…” he took a deep breath and stopped moving.

This vocalising was the worst and he still remembers the cane beating the proper breathing and posture into him as he was trained for the spectacle. He still reached the few first notes, but after another change his voice broke and he was left coughing out a lung and hanging off of Geralt’s arm for a solid moment.

“Fuck, I forgot how awful it was…” he rubbed at his throat. “That is another reason I don’t sing like that anymore. Too much room for error when you live off the coin.” He sighed and righted himself up.

Geralt caught his wrists, fingers brushing against the braid he still wore as a bracelet.

“You can do it, if you like. When we’re alone and in the open.” He offered.

The adoring look on his face meant Jaskier could only nod, joke about luring in half of the forest every time dying on his tongue.


	30. In which Jaskier takes a dive.

They still keep to the coast after giving Roggveen a very wide berth and Jaskier doesn’t have the heart to protest, especially when he sees his witcher still getting used to new Roach. The name might be the same, but nothing replaces years of working together and the new horse is still skittish, spooked by some monsters or the worst trails.

Jaskier does not comment on that, pretending not to see it, but he makes an effort to pick up wild berries to reward Roach when Geralt pretends he’s not looking.

“He never saw it with her either, you know?” he whispered into the horse's mane, brushing it with his fingers as he waited by the campfire. “Always grumbled that apples are not a good diet for a working animal, but then went blind as soon as I had one in my hand.” He chuckled and ignored when Roach tried to eat his hair again.

He’ll have to buy new oils in the next town. That’s why they were coming back inland, that and the rumour of a monster in the nearby town. It was coastal enough Geralt felt safe with leaving Jaskier on his own, but far enough inland it had a decent market.

“Okay, that’s enough for today.” He pulled Roach far from his poor hair and took out a handkerchief to dry it. He cursed when he saw his naked wrist and looked around quickly, snatching the braid bracelet before Roach could see it and check if it’s another treat.

The ties were coming loose too much and he had to constantly keep checking it. He probably should've just burned it or something, but it felt- nice, to have something of Geralt on him. The ambers were just an imitation, but this, this was real.

A harsh reminder to not be stupid as well, which he still seems to be in need of.

He sighed and looked at the clam he picked up when he went to cool down by the beach, Roach safely tied and hidden between the trees, the warding stone shining with magic. Geralt showed him how to activate it, which luckily didn’t need him to have any abilities of his own.

Supposedly he should be able to learn some basic spell of two, that’s what Geralt said after the way he reacted to his herb tonics and brews. Faster than if he had no potential, but still on the bottom of the spectrum.

He didn’t mind it, really. Geralt had the magic and the sword, he was content with his singing and knife. They fit together this way, why intrude on the balance when it was working so well?

“Again?” he sighed and sat farther from Roach, ignoring the way she stomped at the ground without her favourite chew-toy. “I will buy something with citrus and pepper, I promise you!” he grumbled and mussed up his hair, trying to make it look semi-presentable.

“You’ll get more luck with citrus if you’re trying to keep her away.” Geralt offered, suddenly right by Jaskier’s side and dropping a young buck on the ground beside them. Jaskier started frowning at the sight of such a young thing, but then he noticed gashes on its side and the leg crushed in the middle.

Poor buck must’ve fallen into a trap and got attacked. All the better to kill it quickly then… and all the better they’re going to catch the monster, so people can stop with the useless contraptions. Silver one might help, but he doubted they were anything but steel, maybe iron.

“And you are getting a bell!” Jaskier threatened, rubbing at his chest. “Do you wish me to perish from fright, is that it?” he scoffed theatrically and barely hid a grin at Geralt’s brief smile. “Ooh, I see how it is! You finally noticed how much of a burden I am and wish to rid yourself of me, witcher. I’ve seen through your devious plan!” he jumped to his feet and threw the clam at witcher’s lap. “And here I was, risking my very live in the treacherous seas to gift you their treasu- fuck!” he toppled to the ground as the sharp edge of the clam was unceremoniously pushed at the back of his knee, making his leg buckle.

He laid on his back and glared at Geralt, which meant he had the perfect view as witcher opened the clam and the way face softened, eyes darkening almost to pure black.

“I cannot even stay angry at you, how is that fair?” he sighed and poked Geralt with his foot. “The Limar’s famous for their pearl-divers too, so I thought I’d try my luck.” He shrugged, looking away as he sat up. “Do what you wish with it.” He added, to kill his stupid hopes before he could get them up.

Even if Geralt does make something for himself to wear, it won’t mean anything. He tried not to indulge himself, but sometimes he did it before he realised the ritual he was walking into. Like the pearl, he dived just to cool off, but then noticed clams and picked one up at random because the shell had a pretty pattern. He found the dark pearl only when he opened it to see if it was the edible kind…

So it didn’t matter. At least that’s what he kept telling himself when Geralt vanished into town the next day and came back in the evening, with a simple bracelet clamp, the pearl turned into a lock.

“It’s silver, too, so it’ll alert you if your next lover’s feeling thirsty for something more.” Geralt grinned and Jaskier couldn’t stop himself from laughing at the awful joke.

“It was two times!” he reminded him still and took the clasp.

He trimmed the ends of the braided hair better and put it into the ends, Geralt tightening them before he put the bracelet on his wrist. It was tighter now, flush against his skin and not brushing against it.

Somehow he liked it better.


	31. It comes into the open.

The monster itself gave Geralt little trouble, but it was armoured with something that chipped the silver sword. So they had to detour to Limar, where there were smiths galore. Which somehow Geralt knew about, while knowing absolutely nothing else!

“I swear, do you purposefully forget all the interesting information you ever learn?”

“I don’t-!” Geralt snapped before stopping himself just as fast. He took a few angry breaths, Jaskier standing by Roach and petting her side, as she still got a little jumpy when Geralt got all growly. “Mutations do little for the brain. You live so long and you learn to prioritise.” He said finally before stomping off.

Jaskier sighed and pulled Roach forward.

“Then it’s all the better I’m by your side, to remember all the unimportant bits.” He said, voice perfectly even as he caught up to his witcher.

Geralt shook his head, still frowning.

“Not- they’re not lifesaving, but… still important to many.” He glanced at Jaskier for a moment. “Important to you.”

Jaskier sighed and grabbed his hand.

“Then I shall remember it, when you stick to what is most important to  _ you _ ,” he said, tone final and quickly changed the topic into something trivial.

They found a shop quickly, a smith working with an herbalist, their daughter manning the shop as they were both out for a moment. Jaskier let Geralt talk about the sword repair and walked between the shelves full of herbs, salts and soaps. He said citrus, but those were usually pretty strong, so maybe some extract to mix into pure oil or dried skins to soak into it would work well enough…?

“Leave it ‘ere, mama Lana will he help ya!”

Jaskier frowned, the name bothering him for some reason. He put down the jar and peaked between the shelves. Geralt stood by the counter, a young girl behind it chatting up a storm. She looked familiar, her freckles and the eyes in two different couleurs.

Then she turned to pick something from the cupboard. Jaskier paled, stumbling back and hitting his knee on the shelf. He cursed under his nose and waved a hand dismissively for Geralt’s benefit, still hidden from sight.

“I’m fine! Just- need some air!” he choked out and took a few steps backwards. “I’ll take a walk on the beach, you’ll find me after, fine? Good! See you later.”

He turned in place and almost walked into a woman carrying a basket full of coal. He froze at the sight of her braided hair, hands going up to keep her upright on a habit.

Her eyes were the same, on blue and one green and by the way they widened, Lana recognised him too.

“Nice meeting you, kind lady, but goodbye!” he circled her and ran from the shop like a coward.

Before he saw them notice Geralt’s bloody braid and they started asking for dates, because if it’s gonna all come out into the open he’d much prefer to wait. Wait a lot, definitely! Until Geralt doesn’t hate him so much he’ll send him off, or maybe kill him outright!

He finds a small cave by the beach to hide in and then decides to wait till earth swallows him.

Lana was Bella’s niece and she grew up as a servant at his home. She left when he was a child, when his parents fired most of the staff to not lose the title. How could he forget she moved to Redania? And what were the chances he’d meet here again? And when Geralt unknowingly walked around with Kerack’s courting braid made by his hand, no less?!

He sighed and hit his head against the stone wall. He knew it would happen, knew it would come back to bite him, but he still couldn’t stop.

Because he wanted it, because he loved Geralt and even the flimsy fantasy of being closer to him that he could ever hope for warmed his heart. Because he was selfish and would risk their friendship for his own benefit, using Geralt like you would a cheap whore.

He cursed, hitting his head again. Harder, to make it hurt properly, because he deserved the punishment, but Geralt will probably be too kind to ever dish it out.

He can imagine it, his witcher finding him, worried for his lungs and safety. He’d come in and try to let him down gently and propose they part for just a while, to clear their heads. He’ll come back next spring clean shaved and kick Jaskier out during his baths. He’ll-

Jaskier let out a bitter laugh when he felt his tears fall from his face, then shivered as the cold wind pulled as his damp clothes. The cave was all wet, probably filling in as the tides came. The shells and shellfish littering the ground would suggest that.

He looked over at the growing waves, reaching that little bit further inside than they did when he came in.

What was he doing…?

_ Running _ , supplied his eager mind, in a voice painfully close to his mother’s, from times when she’d look for him all over the manor when she deemed him deserving of beating in punishment for something.  _ Running like a fool, because he cannot ever man up and take what’s coming for him without a farce! _

“Shut up!” he grabbed a few shells and threw them at the receding water, hitting his head against the wall again.

“I didn’t say anything yet.”

Jaskier flinched, forcing himself to open his eyes. Geralt stood in the entrance of the cave, stiff and unfairly gorgeous as the setting sun illuminated him against the waves.

He waited for the curses and insults, but they never came.

“Can I- join you?” Geralt asked instead and Jaskier couldn’t hold in a bitter laugh.

“It’s a cave, who am I to bar you from it?” he shrugged weakly and huddled closer to the wall, curling around himself.

Geralt still had the braid in, but that meant very little. Maybe he just didn’t want to bother cutting his hair so short, or maybe he wanted  _ him _ to untied it, to have him do it by his own hand and to force him to internalize taking away all his silly illusions and fantasies about-

No, not that. He’d never be so cruel, he knew  _ that _ for sure. Somehow it made this whole thing worse.

“I had a very interesting conversation.” Geralt sat by Jaskier’s side, a proper distance away. It means just outside of his reach, his touch, as if he was afraid of what he’d do and somehow it made it hurt worse than if he came closer and pretended nothing had changed.

“Did you.” Jaskier rubbed at his eyes, hoping the shadows of the caves will hide the redness.

“The smith took one look at me and asked about the bride before suddenly becoming cross enough to raise her price for no reason.” Geralt grimaced before leaning against the wall with a sigh. “I admit to-  _ overreacting _ . A little.”

Jaskier twitched, but stopped himself before he could look properly at Geralt. His curiosity quickly won over his fears though, as it always did.

“How little are we talking about?” he tried for a light tone, but he was still hoarse from choking down sobs and it didn’t really work.

Judging by Geralt’s sigh, he heard it too.

“I might’ve…  _ asked _ , what business do I have in slaying their monster if they won’t properly arm me for a fair price. Mentioned that a contract approached with broken weapons might end in nothing else but retreat.”

Jaskier did look at him then, easily seeing the angry blush on Geralt’s face and the ashamed grimace. His own laugh surprised him and he quickly looked away when Geralt tried to glance his way.

“For how long did Lana try and drag you out?” he asked.

There was a moment of silence.

“So you do know each other.”

Jaskier shrugged, picking at the shells on the ground.

“She served my family for a while.” He answered vaguely and quickly changed topics. “First time in history you stand up for yourself and I’m not there to-”

“It wasn’t.” Geralt cut him off sharply, hand jerking as he leaned in, like he wanted to grab him but stopped himself. Jaskier frowned, something in the movement familiar. “I was- you saw her and you ran. She was noisy and then rude, just- I knew something was up. It was the best way to figure it out.”

“And you decided putting your reputation at risk was the best way?” Jaskier would’ve chuckled if his stomach wasn’t still squirming in his gut.

“You’re more important.” Geralt forced that out through his teeth, clearly unhappy, but answering none the same.

Jaskier looked up suddenly, an echo of old lessons going through his mind.

Allow them to approach. Keep proper distance. Judge if the humiliation is equal to your hurt. Check with the right questions if they are keeping truthful. Then decide to move closer or leave. Those were all points beaten into him by his parents, about dealing with other nobles slighting him, especially ones they considered for marriage.

Did Geralt just… try to adhere to them?

He laughed at the very thought before deciding to test it.

“So… what did she say, after your heroic self-sacrifice of performing mild blackmail?” he said slowly, sitting cross legged and turning to the side.

Geralt hesitated for a moment, before looking straight at him.

“What I’ve been wearing for months.” He said evenly and brushed a strand of hair behind his ear. Jaskier flinched, wondering if this is where it all goes to hell and the screaming and pain started. “What  _ you _ are wearing…” Geralt's eyes slid lower then, to Jaskier's wrist, a flash of pure misery going through his face.

That- made no sense.

“The pearl?” he ventured a guess and rubbed at the braided bracelet.

Geralt shook his head.

“The- my hair. The severing braid.” He explained and took a shaky breath.

“Right.” Jaskier bit his lip, trying to remember anything that could fit and came up empty handed. “I swear I’m not mocking you, but I have no idea what you mean.” He admitted and then slowly pushed a little closer. “I-I  _ just  _ caught on you’re playing at courtly customs right now and I never paid much attention, really, so I might’ve forgotten completely. I just wore it to- have it, something of yours with me, I swear. Nothing more to it.”

Geralt gave him a startled look, warring with himself for a moment before he made some decision.

“Umpf!” Jaskier gasped when the decision turned out to be half-leaping closer to hug the very breath out of him. He didn’t protest, relishing the touch and hoping it won’t be the last time he’s allowed it. “I-I really didn’t- just a keepsake, I swear-”

“How long.” Geralt interrupted him and then moved back, just enough to press their foreheads together and it was completely unfair, since he was close enough to see Jaskier’s puffy eyes while his own glowed brightly in the low light.

Jaskier tried to pretend he had no idea what his witcher was asking for a hot minute before he sagged against him, closing his eyes.

“Since Elaina’s summer ball. A-after the flute.” He whispered, tensing in preparation.

He would deal with it. Whatever was Geralt's reaction, he will take it on with dignity and try to salvage as much as he’s able, no matter how painful it might be or how steep the price might end up. He was prepared for anything, truly, he imagined it in so many ways there is nothing left – he went through things like shouting, like anger, like being hit, like accusations of betrayal, like being abandoned, like-

Like anything except the dry lips pressing against his own, for just a brief moment as broad hands held his face with utmost care, like he was a priceless treasure made from spun glass and could shatter at the slightest pressure.

He looked at Geralt, bewildered, heart trashing in his chest and blood buzzing in his ears.

It had to mean what he thought it did, right? It had to! Why else would Geralt kiss him of all things, right now, as they discussed the damn mess of their not-really-courting?

There was no mistaking the way his eyes darkener either, or the pupils wide with gold ring around them, or the deliberately slow blinking, or the way Geralt’s finger kept gently stroking his cheek or his shy smile or the dark red of his face or-

Fuck it, he might as well just assume and apologise later.

“Di-did  _ you _ mean-?”he choked out and almost sobbed at the way Geralt’s forehead rubbed against his, as his witcher nodded without moving away. “H-how long…?”

That made Geralt twitch, tips of his ears reddening.

“The academy.” He admitted slowly. Jaskier wondered if he still adhered to the rule of telling no lies during the customary reconciliation. “You took me in, and the clothes- i-it started then.”

For a moment Jaskier just blinked at him with disbelief before he burst out into hysterical laughter. He leaned against Geralt, clutching at his armour to make it clear he’s not rejecting him in any way.

He couldn’t.

They couldn’t.

Not for so long, right?

Did they both truly just play around each other for all those years without any need?

“I-I bought the d-damn pin then!” he gestured vaguely with his hand. If Geralt knew about braids, Lana must’ve told him about the pin and the lilies too, it was a package-deal. “I-in spite, because I assumed you never knew, but- I could’ve just given it to you then a-and we would’ve missed out on years of misunderstandings!”

Geralt looked away at that and Jaskier sobered up in moments. His brain finally seemed to work again, too, reminding him it took another year before he realized his feelings himself.

Getting together then probably would’ve ended up with a disaster. Even their friendship almost did, so many times.

“…or not.” Jaskier sighed and moved slowly, to press their lips together. “Maybe it’s just perfect as it is.”

Geralt hummed in agreement. Jaskier opened his mouth to say something else, but then a gust of wind circled around the cave, reminding him of his wet clothes and the mood was gone as soon as he started sneezing.

It took them a while to settle against the least damp part of the cave, Geralt setting some seaweed and washed-out branches on fire. Jaskier was sitting on his lap, to keep him from cold and prevent relapsing, Geralt’s arms heavy and warm around him.

It was  _ bliss _ . After all the months of heartache and fears, to just be close and sure of their love was pure and undiluted bliss.

Almost.

“So what is it, exactly?” he held his hand up, showing off the bracelet. “I truly don’t know or don’t remember.”

Geralt made a face, reaching to cover it with his sleeve.

“You braid the hair for the wife, right? After marriage.” He started and when Jaskier nodded, he sighed before continuing. “You cut it, wearing it like that if marriage is failing.

Jaskier sighed, too.

“Well. No wonder my parents never taught me that. Can’t have me divorcing and losing whatever profitable match they’d settle on.” He snorted and laid his head on Geralt’s arm, closing his eyes. “I can take it off.” He offered.

Geralt hesitated, hand rubbing absentmindedly at Jaskier’s arms.

“Did we?” he asks finally. “Reconcile. That’s when you take it off and burn it… but did we?”

Jaskier hesitated for a moment.

They both fucked up, honestly, both too insecure to just ask and making their lives miserable for years because of that. It would be all too easy to fall into bliss of first kisses and new relationship, but…

“We can dance if you need it.” Geralt’s tone was long-suffering and Jaskier couldn’t stop the laugh at the memory of Geralt’s forced attendance of some lord’s celebratory ball.

Witcher’s armor was useful in many endeavours. Dancing was not one of them.

“Why dance?” he asked.

“The daughter, Lina, came out and explained it all before I started looking for you. The whole- custom, to make it up to you.” Geralt shrugged. “She said it must finish with a  _ special dance _ … though you probably won’t know that either, I guess?”

Jaskier tried very hard to keep a straight face, but still burst out laughing again. Gods, he must be sounding hysterical, but it calmed his frayed nerves.

“Se-sex.” He choked out between giggles. “Must m-mean sex, dear, but c-can’t say it to a child.” He shook his head.

Geralt stilled, making Jaskier calm instantly in turn.

“We don’t need to. Not this fast, or not until we’re both ready.” He offered, gently, reaching out his hand to play with Geralt’s braid. His witcher relaxed back slowly, nodding once. Jaskier expected himself to care much more, but then his libido seemed so capricious ever since he realised he was in love. It probably wasn’t that much of a surprise.

They sit in silence for a while, before Geralt speaks up again.

“I- was afraid.” He admitted slowly, turning his head away. “You wouldn’t- didn’t respond, like you should. I thought you were…”

“Rejecting you.” Jaskier cursed his lack of focus and the blinding panic. “I wasn’t, I just didn’t-”

“I know.” Geralt shook his head.” I kept thinking. The sickness, the wounds, the robberies. That arrow…” he rubbed at Jaskier’s thigh, where a fresh scar was still a little tender. “You came so late. I wondered, if you decided to keep away. To keep yourself safe.”

Jaskier shook his head and moved, to cradle Geralt’s face in his hands and force him to look into his eyes.

“I wouldn’t.” he says adamantly and then takes a calming breath, gathering up his courage. “I love you. I’d never leave you like that.” He says finally, his voice shaking.

For a moment Geralt’s just frozen, looking at him with the most wondrous expression, one you’d wear in a temple if the gods suddenly descended to earth in front of you. Jaskier would be lying if he said it didn’t go straight to his ego and bruised heart.

But then he opened his mouth only to close it, once, twice and trice before snapping them shut with a clack of teeth, his expression pained.

Jaskier leaned in to kiss him before he could say anything else.

“I can wait.” He assured, pressing their foreheads together and closed his eyes. “I can  _ see _ and  _ feel _ it every day, I promise.” He smiled and leaned against him more comfortably again. “…and I know when cats blink slow, darling.” He added, just to tease him, but the nervous shift told him all he needed to know.

The night was looking to be pretty miserable, both of them stranded by the tide until morning.

“Why did I have to hide in a bloody beach cave?” he sighed and cuddled up closer to Geralt. He’d try crawling under his clothes if he wasn’t afraid that the kissing alone might’ve been too taxing on Geralt’s nerves. Not to mention all the talking about emotions that probably didn’t help.

As caring and sweet as his witcher was, making him acknowledge it was worse than pulling teeth from a dragon.

It was for the best, if he was honest with himself. Somehow he felt giddy and nervous himself, despite years of experience, because- well,  _ because _ this was Geralt. This wasn’t a roll on the sheets to waste the night away, it wasn’t exchanging pleasure for something, it wasn’t paid for. It wasn’t even a lovely, but ultimately passing crush like with Elaina.

It was real, for lack of a better word. It was love that seeped into his bones and held tight, with barbed hooks that took root and only spread more, reforming him cell by cell until each was attuned to Geralt’s very existence and relied on it as much as he did on air for sustenance.

He sighed, wondering how many love songs will Geralt let him get away with. More if they’ll be just for the two of them, that for sure, but people could be so stupid... he could probably sneak in a few lines here and there, if he tried… he was already waxing poetics about Geralt’s deeds, what would be a few more here and there, right?

“Is there more?” Geralt shook him out of his musing and Jaskier blinked, trying to focus.

“To what-? Oh, the braid… not really?” he bit his lip, trying to focus as he slapped Geralt’s hand away from the plait before he ruined it, reaching to tighten it a bit. There was no way to fix it here. “Hmm, I guess we’d be planting celery for a wedding feast if we had a home. Maybe flowers for the blue dye? You’re supposed to wear something blue for the ceremony, used to weave the fabric and dye it by hand, but now you can just buy something or use family heirlooms… my mom had a gorgeous tiara with blue stones.” He sighed dejectedly.

That he wouldn’t mind wearing, if he was honest. The ambers won him over easily, the shining gold a constant comfort when he was alone during cold snowy days or as he kept choking on his own breath with pneumonia. He did miss the shine of his old silvers and golds though…

He rubbed the pearl at his wrist.

“That’s a custom too, just so you know.” He chuckled. “You think it was fate, that we just kept walking straight into courtship time after time again?”

Geralt made a face at that and covered his hand with his own.

“I doubt it.” He mutters, but Jaskier heard something completely different.

That he knew  _ it could be _ , that he probably saw his fair share of fate and destiny and magic messing with people’s lives. That he didn’t want it to be, wishing for something of his own, no fated assistance forcing their hands needed.

Jaskier smiled and leaned in to kiss his cheek, before rubbing his own against Geralt’s stubble.

“Well, I don’t think so. Nobody forced me to accept all the gifts or give them back… and I like to think I approached you first.” He said lightly. “Even if you did start the courting with your break-in…”

The bewildered face Geralt made sent Jaskier into a fit of laughter and somehow they wasted away the night on Jaskier bringing up every little ritual they walked into. He didn’t pay much attention whether they did them right or whether they accepted them, although Geralt’s mortification at his hate-wreath was adorable.

“-his face!” Jaskier shook his head, feeling as much petty satisfaction as he recalled the face of the candy merchant as he took the pity chocolates like the priceless gift they actually were. “I feared his ears might start smoking, he was so red!”

Geralt rolled his eyes and silenced him with a kiss, something that happened a few times during the talk and Jaskier’s heart was close to breaking through his ribs to leap at Geralt every single time. The feeling was exhausting and utterly delightful.

Of course that’s when his stomach reminded Jaskier he was holding out on a few pieces of dried meat from the morning.

“It’s fine, we’ll be out in a few hours-!” he protested when Geralt set him down on the ground, but the words died in his mouth as he saw his witcher start to strip.

He chased off any dirty thoughts and cleared his throat.

“You’re gonna what, go dive for a fish barehanded?” he joked.

“Starfish.” Geralt corrected him, as if that explained anything. “The tides should’ve brought some close enough.”

“Starfish. For eating.” Jaskier repeated before sighing. “Well, I knew what I was signing up for when you tried to feed me roasted- what was that overgrown crab you tried to feed me? Zmora?”

“ _ Kiki _ mora.” Geralt gave him a look, but the fact that he was standing there without a shirt and pants took away and chastising power it might’ve had. “And their claws are pure muscles and-”

“ _ Perfectly fine to eat _ , right.” Jaskier snorted and crossed his arms. “Well, starfish must be better than that, so go off I guess.” He bit his lip in hesitation, before adding “Kiss for good luck?” he reached out a hand.

Geralt’s indulgent smile as he leaned in illuminated the cave better than the fire. Jaskier watched him slip under the water and the thought of his witcher changing his mind and leaving never crossed his mind.

The starfish looked familiar enough. The weird seaweed that was draped over Geralt’s arm and now laid on the patch of ground cleaned out by Aard was decidedly not.

“You’re not blushing.” Jaskier grinned, leaning his chin on his knees.

“And?” Geralt glanced at him, but turned away much too quickly.

“You do this thing, when you look like you should be blushing, but aren’t. You control it, right? Like your pulse and eyes, so~…?” Jaskier let the sound hang until his witcher sat by his side and kissed him quietly.

He was quickly adoring this new little habit of his. Even if it will probably be used against him much too often in the future.

“So.” Geralt glanced at the seaweed. “We don’t have a pot, so we’ll bake them in this… it’s wild celery.” He finally admitted.

Jaskier smiled, snuggling up to him and vowed to eat every single little starfish, even if they were the worst thing in his life.

They weren’t, thank gods, but he would’ve done it. Hell, he’d probably do anything if Geralt continued to be so sappy.

“Oh, ‘hilis.” He said suddenly and swallowed. “I mean lilies of the valley. Like on the pin? I’d be planting them too, to make a wreath for the wedding.”

“Well, for now you have to do with that.” Geralt reached for his hand and Jaskier let him, watching as Geralt wrapped a clumsily braided seaweed around his wrist, covering the braid, but leaving the pearl out in the open. “Just for now. I’ll fix something for you tomorrow.”

Jaskier smiled and had to bite his tongue before he asked for something silly, like the potion to keep the plant ever-fresh to wear it exactly like that forever. They can’t both be this ridiculous!

Of course, the moment’s broken when the next piece of starfish decides to glue itself to his throat and Jaskier dissolves into a coughing fit. He sees Geralt’s decision as soon as he’s done patting his back and putting a cup to his mouth.

“I’m staying, aren’t I?” he sighs and takes advantage of their close position to lean against his witcher, greedy for any touch if they’re going to be separated again.

Geralt at least doesn’t try to lie or evade the question.

“You should get well, properly. Stay here for the winter and we can meet come spring? I’ll leave you money-”

“Don’t.” Jaskier sighed. “I’ll be fine, darling. Lana will probably let me stay with her after she hears about us… although I just might reconsider after the entire winter of being teased.” He smiled. “You sure you’re ready to leave me?”

“Never.” Geralt surprised him, holding him closer as he brushed a hand through his hair. “That I never could get used to.”

Jaskier cursed and hid his blush in Geralt’s arm.

“You’re utterly impossible. How on earth does anyone buy the shit that  _ witchers don’t feel _ when you’re spouting such flowery nonsense?” He shook his head.

He didn’t have a chance to complain much more, because soon his lips were otherwise occupied and, with months apart looming over them, he was far from complaining about that.

Geralt was gone in two days and Jaskier tried to convince himself he didn’t mind the lack of goodbye. He knew all too well neither of them would let the other one go if they were both conscious.

Besides, how could he be angry, when he woke up to an empty bed, but a table set up all for him?

He was still smiling through tears when Lana found him, a crude silver headband with an inset pearl on his head, the lovage-spiced mash filling room with the smell of celery and a handkerchief dyed a pale blue still stinking of cabbage.

Her teasing, somehow, only made him smile brighter.


	32. In which Jaskie keeps his promise.

Jaskier let Lana’s husband listen to his breath, poke and probe him anywhere he wanted and then drank every vile herbal concoction he was given.

“Now can I finally leave?!” he snapped. The way little Lina giggled at him brought a blush to his cheeks, but he kept glaring at Lana.

“I just don’t want Enel to find your corpse in the ditch. He’d get a stroke himself.” She looked at him just to roll her eyes, before going back to snooping through a chest of clothes. He still had no idea what she was looking for all of a sudden.

Jaskier looked at Enel for help, but the man only smiled and shook his head.

“Traitor.” He grumbled, but let himself be measured all over, wincing when he put the clothes back on and they still wouldn’t fix right. Damn the sickness and weight loss.

“Here!” Lana turned him in place suddenly and Jaskier barely had time to think before she was yanking the headband from his hair.

“Hey!” he grabbed for it by habit, after months of never taking it off beside baths it felt weird to have it taken away. He hissed when his fingers got slapped with the metal.

“Patience.” She didn’t even look up, busy wrapping some fabric around it.

Jaskier wanted to complain, but then he noticed white bells of the lilies of the valley against dark blue and his breath caught in his throat. So he just watched as she wrapped it and then threaded the needle through the silk before cutting off the excess.

“I know you wouldn’t let me fix it, so here. At least now it won’t look like you’re walking around with a barrel loop.” She teased him, but when Jaskier leaned in to let her put it back on, her eyes were wet.

She apologized to him, through the winter. So many times he lost count, about assuming and almost scaring his witcher off with the arguments, because what Geralt hadn’t told him was that he threatened to just leave as he was, right after he found Jaskier, at least until Lana said Jaskier already rejected him.

He never imagined he’d be grateful for the whole mess in Cintra, but without that talk… Geralt might’ve assumed, too, and just left. He was so skittish when it came to affection that the accidental proof that was there probably would’ve been enough to convince him.

He rubbed finger along the silk and hugged Lana tightly, letting her go only to hug Enel too.

“My turn, my turn!” Lina jumped up to his side and he picked her up to twirl around, smiling at her squeal of laughter.

He put her down when his arm started to strain and turned to Lana again.

“I’ll try to visit again. Send a word to Bella, will you?” he sighed.

He was happy to hear his old nanny was still alive and somewhat well, but heartbroken to hear her memory has been escaping her for years. He decided it was better to stay away and didn’t even ask where she was cared for.

“I will. I’m sure she’ll be happy.” Lana smiled and pushed the lute into his hands. “No go, before I change my mind.”

Leaving was bitter-sweet, but with Geralt probably already waiting because Enel was keeping him till he ran out of excuses, he set out with purpose and didn’t look back.

It still took a good few days to reach Seaga, but it only meant he had time to mentally prepare himself to meet Geralt again. They were all but married and they kissed and Jaskier professed his love while perfectly sure Geralt felt the same, but-

He had little to no idea what to expect  _ next _ . He didn’t even mean sex, that he was truly ready to wait for as long as needed with only minor grumbling, but he never was in a real relationship, one meant to last. Would things change, would they not? How much? How would he know? Should he just ask, or try and figure it out?

Was he supposed to kiss him welcome as soon as they saw each other? What if he found him in public, did Geralt want open displays of affection or would he prefer to keep it quiet, to not make Jaskier his weak point?

He sighed and reached to rub at the pearl again, smiling weakly. It became a habit of his and he’ll honestly miss this if Geralt decides to make something else. Maybe the silk wrapping will convince him to just leave it?

He stopped suddenly, unsure even why until he noticed a few familiar things around. Raised ground (where Geralt buried leftover meat before it attracted animals), trees stripped of young, soft branches (because this Roach was much more picky about snacking), even the slightly  _ other _ look to the air (as the rune stone pulsed with magic and provided protection).

Jaskier grinned and walked between the trees, snatching up a few early blooming flowers as he went. He found Roach first and moved away before she could try and snack on his hair.

“No more of that, I fear.” He rubbed the headband and instead gave her a few flowers to munch on instead. “And where is our lovely witcher, hmm?” he looked around the camp, trying not to look too disappointed when all pointed out to Geralt being gone for a while.

Well, he can always do some waiting. It’s not like Geralt wasn’t already waiting for a few days here, he can deal with a few hours, right? At least he had Roach here, as a proof that his witcher was gonna come at some point.

Jaskier sat by the fire and put down his pack, the sight of runestone sending a warm tickle down his spine. He pulled out his embroidery set and for lack of better things to do, continued the unhurried process of painstakingly stitching up the roughly cut silk.

He’d go back and strangle Lana if he didn’t know she did it exactly for the sole reason of giving him something time-consuming to focus on, should he need it. It didn’t make it any easier or more tedious, though, so he already knew who’s not getting invited to a wedding.

He hissed when he pricked his finger.

Right. The wedding. Which he was not planning at all and the little piece of parchment in his pack was only a creative exercise, because no matter the obvious gifts left by Geralt, they still haven’t talked about it and it was no use getting his hopes up only to get burned and then sour their fresh relationship with his own stupidity, besides he remembers being distinctly told that witchers don't marry and while it seemed it was just a consequence of their lives, not an active stand, it would still be presumptuous to assume he can just-

“Gods!” he almost stabbed his finger through when he heard a sudden thump, some horned head landing on a ground nearby. “A _ bell _ , I fucking swear, you awfu-mhh!” he didn’t even get to properly complain, because Geralt leaned in to kiss him.

Well, that answers one of his worries, at least.

He licked his lips when Geralt pulls away and grins till his cheeks hurt when he notices his witcher's blush.

“You’re allowing it on purpose aren’t you?” he still asks, because the way Geralt grumbles before finally nodding is still adorable.

He’s not sure when the utter lack of social skill became so endearing.

“That’s new.” Geralt sits by him and looks briefly at the headband.

“Right!” Jaskier checks it over and quickly ties off the silk thread, so it won’t fray. “Lana did it, before I left. Gave me distraction for a bloody month if I’m honest.” He puts away the kit and pushes the headband to his witcher’s hands. “…and it’s probably safer when nobody can see a solid chunk of silver on my head, darling.” He adds, because he’s more than apt at reading Geralt in some ways and he can easily guess what he might be wondering, seeing the metal  _ covered _ , even if the lilies leave little room for ominous speculations.

But Geralt looks away, playing with the headband in a way that would be squirming for someone else.

“Right.” He sighs. “I’ve got you something.” He admits finally. “It should be finished, so we can grab it when I get my pay?”

Jaskier nodded before leaning his head in, to rub incessantly against Geralt’s chin before letting out a little sight when the headband was put back in place. The weight and the pressure truly became too familiar to stand their absence.

He hopes Geralt doesn’t ever try to fix it and vows to stitch it up as fast as he can, so there will be an argument of his own work put into it, too.

They get to the market and Jaskier can’t help himself, picking up a pastry from one of the stalls when Geralt’s distracted by someone thanking him profusely. It’s a woman pushed around on a wheelbarrow by two teens, one of her legs gone just above the knee and the other mid-calf, wrappings fresh and stinking of medicine.

Jaskier gives them a moment, but the vendor notices him staring.

“Lost ‘er husband, but a’ least witcher brought ‘er back. Kids won’ be left all ‘lone.” He says, gruff with what might be either disappointment at Geralt ineptitude or concealed grief. Jaskier feels happy enough to believe the latter and overpays for the pastry before walking up to Geralt.

The woman took one look at him before suddenly smiling in a much different manner.

“Won’t hold you longer.” She sounds hoarse and Jaskier shivers at the thought of how much screaming would’ve left her in such a state. He  _ hoped _ it was only that despite the bruises on her neck that looked far to close in shape to human hands for his comfort. “Go, Renata’s done since yesterday!” she waved them off, then told her kids where to go now.

Jaskier waved the pastry in front of Geralt's face, recognising the look he had. Something did happen during the hunt he wasn’t happy with.

“Wanna talk when we go back?” he offered quietly and licked off crumbs from his fingers, flushing slightly when he noticed Geralt watching him intently. He would probably be more worried if he didn’t catch himself watching the way Geralt’s lips and tongue move as he ate.

Guess that would be a change, he supposed. Not like he wasn’t always stealing glances at Geralt, they took baths together for too long to still have any shame about it, but somehow it felt different now. Probably because finally didn’t feel he had to be secretive about it…

“Later.” Geralt agreed, after a good while, and Jaskier only smiled when he pushed him into a shop a moment later. He knew Jaskier wouldn’t ask in front of people, buying himself more time this way. It would’ve stung, the assumption Jaskier would pester him about it, but he knew himself well enough so he didn’t protest.

“Witcher!” a stocky woman walked from behind a counter and smiled brightly. She too gave Jaskier one look before her grin turned into something much more self-satisfied and he had to keep himself from squirming.

Practice of playing dumb in front of royal guests trough his childhood finally paid off, at least.

“Always nice to meet such a lovely lady.” He said, but kept to only bowing slightly instead of kissing her hand. He had some suspicions, with the way Geralt behaved…

He busied himself by looking over a case filled with ribbons and hair accessories, picking out a few when a boy came by and asked if he’s buying. He had the same golden curls than the owner.

“I got it.” Geralt suddenly was right behind him and Jaskier turned in place to shake a small parcel he just received.

A quiet ringing filled the room, muted by the packaging.

“I wanted you, darling.” Jaskier drawled without any guilt and then walked out before Geralt could snatch the purchase from his hand and broke into a run when he was back out on the street.

They mock-raced right to the camp, Jaskier perfectly aware that Geralt could’ve grabbed him before he took one step away if he truly wanted. So even as he fell onto the ground, gasping for breath and stuffing the small parcel under his shirt to keep it safe, he was still grinning.

Geralt came only a moment later, insultingly fine and without any sign of exertion. He put a paper-wrapped bundle down by his side.

“Here. Can I finally give it to you?” he raised an eyebrow and Jaskier very maturely stuck his tongue at him. He still sat up and tore into the paper with greedy hands, pulling soft leather up as soon as he could grab it.

The coat was  _ marvellous _ , the brown leather soft and masterfully cured, while the black fur inside was silky to the touch and so thick Jaskier couldn’t even see through the brighter undercoat that gave it the illusion of indigo shine when light hit it well. Then it seamlessly changed into an actual mane in the hood, black seamlessly turning brown and then golden.

He caught up, finally, to the knowing smiles and looks in the town. Replin, where you use the first kill of the year to make clothes to start courting someone. He knew it and judging by Geralt behaviour, he knew about it as well.

“High time we finally did it consciously.” He chuckled, blinking away tears. “But what is it? Did you kill a mountain lion or something?” he asked, vice still full of quiet awe as he brushed his fingers through the courser hair of the hood.

“Sphinx.” Geralt said as he sat by his side, smiling so openly Jaskier was caught between inspecting his gift further and just staring like a lovestruck fool. “Though it was androsphinx, since there was no mention of it flying, but a mage just cut them off to keep it… docile… anyway, it’s warm enough for winters, but reflects the sun when it’s hot.” He cut himself off from another monster lore lecture.

“I don’t mind you going off, it’s very inspirational.” He patted his leg and moved, to lay down on a grass again, but with his head on Geralt’s tight. “Now let’s talk.” He reminded him gently.

“-I can still push you off.” Geralt pokes him, but then takes a calming breath. “Mage took the mother, leaving a nest abandoned. Cubs started making trouble and Mara’s husband decided to get rich by capturing them. Mage had use for one, right?”

Jaskier cringed.

“And what happened to Mara’s legs?”

Geralt sighed.

“They chose a bad day. I got the mage, but the sphinx escaped. It went for the nest and-“ he cut himself off, suddenly tense.

Jaskier reached to poke his cheek, stopping only when Geralt grabbed his hand. He twisted his palm to hold his hand, lacing their fingers together. He waited, humming as he tried to work out a song he was stuck on for a while.

“He threw her at it.” Geralt said, finally. “Almost strangled first, keeping her up as a shield.”

Jaskier brough the shaking hand to his lips, brushing them against each of his fingers. Why could there never be just a pleasant start for the year?

“She lost both legs before the sphinx decided she’s too lean and went for the fat bastard. She was bleeding out and I had time to reach him, but-”

“You went for her.” Jaskier finished, looking up at him with fond eyes. “Like any decent person would, I promise you.”

“She should’ve bled out.” Geralt protested weakly. “It’s gods’ grace she didn’t. He screamed as I burned her wounds – it must’ve been last thing she heard before going into shock and-”

“Shush.” Jaskier reached with free hand to cover Geralt’s mouth. “I’d get up to kiss you quiet, but I’m too comfortable.” He added with a grin before closing his eyes for a moment.

He could easily see it. Mara looked tiny, lean and too slim for a rich town like Replin, just like her kids. He took their scuffs and bruises for normal, but he could as easily see them otherwise.

“The better person survived, that’s all that matters.” He said softly, fully aware of how badly it might make him look. “I’m pretty sure if someone threw me at a monster, hearing their agony in my dying moments would be a good way to go as well.”

Geralt snorted and pushed him onto the grass. Jaskier looked at him and bit his lip, hesitant.

“So, that lovely coat you got me… warm enough to trek the Blue mountains?” he asked slowly.

The witcher shifted, reaching to fix Jaskier’s clothes and taking out the small parcel, playing with it in his hand.

“It should be.” He said finally and looked away, a faint blush creeping on his cheeks. “Now can I see what you got me?”

“You seem awfully sure it’s all for you.” Jaskier laughed and sat up to lean against him. “It wouldn’t be half as bad if you weren’t right.” He added with a grin and reached to pull on the string himself.

There were half a dozen ribbons, in plain colours, but under them was the source of the gentle ringing.

It wasn’t an actual bell, because Jaskier wasn’t so petty to forego aesthetics, but the small bell-shaped flowers carved from tiny pearls were ringing as Geralt moved the hairpin, giving an illusion of wind brushing through real flowers.

“Lana let me use pearls that she broke during work, so no, I did not dive through the winter.” He said, pushing a finger at the start of Geralt’s frown. “I heard cats still learn to walk soundlessly with their bells. If you can’t then we’ll just leave it for winter? Or take it out when you go work.” He shrugged.

Geralt shook his head and pulled the pin close to his chest.

“Put it in.” he said and turned around so fast Jaskier almost lost his balance.

“Needy.” He chuckled, leaning to kiss Geralt on the head before he pulled a small comb from the pouch at his tight and started undoing a simple braid. His hair wasn’t shaved this year either and it put a silly grin on his face.

This pin was different, a flower made from metal soldered to a flat base with few segmented needles to push into the hair, each ending in little hooks to catch onto a loop in the base. Those would need to be replaced after a while, but Jaskier didn’t mind.

Sitting by Geralt’s side, warm under a sphinx’ coat and listening to Geralt’s recount of how he spent his winter, he found he couldn’t bring himself to mind about anything at all.


	33. In which Jaskier sings monsters away.

Jaskier glared at the blazing sun and wiped his face again, wondering why he ever agreed to  _ this _ . Honestly, he still couldn’t believe that Geralt let him be a bait – which meant something was probably going on, if he was honest. His witcher wouldn’t let him come within day’s distance to Pontar without proverbially beating into his head to  _ cover the fucking lute this time _ – he would not let him go play chase with actual monsters.

Not that this knowledge helped him any as he walked around a garden in a bloody burlap sack someone pretends to be a dress, dragging along a bundle masquerading as a swaddled child. He would’ve taken his lute to have some modicum of defence, should he be attacked, but Geralt just waved him off.

Which only added to his theory that it was all a ruse or something. He had no idea who’d  _ want _ to waste money on sending a witcher on wild goose chase… but then, his parents would pay to get their hall repainted to match the clothes of a season, which meant it had to be redone every few months. People were often stupid with their wealth and the baroness was definitely weird enough during talks to suspect of just throwing money away. Granted, she was known for being sickly for years and now heavy with child while her husband was bound to bed after a hunt went wrong some weeks back, leaving her to care for everything. So maybe it was just paranoia over the child, but even that should have  _ some limits! _

Too bad she had to do this in the middle of the bloody summer, sentencing Jaskier to wandering in the castle's gardens at noon, because apparently  _ some monsters worked on an hourly basis! _

It was times like this when he wondered if Geralt wasn’t just making shit up as he prattle don about weird creatures.

He wiped his neck and took a calming breath, which only made him feel worse as the damp air almost sent him into a coughing fit.

If this does turn it’s a ruse, he’s gonna-!

_ Well.  _ Probably whine for weeks and nothing else, because he couldn’t expect Geralt to predict the future, but cursing him out in his head helped… a little, with anger if not the heat that was gonna give him a damn stroke if the monster or whatever else doesn’t hurry up and-

He stumbled, suddenly, barely catching himself on castle’s wall before he fell right onto-

Onto…

He bites his hand not to scream, taking a few shaky steps backwards. Cold shiver goes down his spine as he watches what’s in front of him. It might be mistaken for children, if one never saw any in their life and relied on badly translated records of descriptions made by someone both blind and crazy.

The things were small, with blotchy red skin, umbilical cords wrapped around the malformed bodies. Eyes bloodshot and unseeing, long tongues lolling out to drag on the ground, tapered at the ends.

Jaskier took a few shaky breaths and pulled his hand away to take out the whistle. He agreed with Geralt it’s safest way to call on him, should something happen and-

He shuddered, slowly sitting down before he fell over.

This was definitely  _ something _ .

He blew the whistle, slowly, hoping the monsters won’t take interest. Few pick up their heads and stumble closer to him, but quickly lose interest.

So he waits, trying to calm down his heartbeat, but as he counts it down to a normal level nothing happens. No Geralt, no servants, nothing.

It shouldn’t really make him worry too much, except…

The baroness dealt with them, but she wasn’t actually the one to call them. It was her husband’s servant, on his behalf. She seemed more scared the longer they were here.

Jaskier bit his lip, looking over the little monsters. They stumbled about, clearly disturbed by his wandering here, bushes crawling over the walls parted close to the ground and showing off freshly turned dirt. They didn’t seem interested in coming to him, though, which only made this more confusing.

He really wished he had his lute. Or that Geralt would come already!

_ Think _ , he reminded himself, trying to focus on that unfortunate stay at Ban Ard and all the lectures he got from Geralt.  _ Think what this could be and what you actually know. _

Darnick was a nice province, rich due to mineral deposits and fertile fields. It had a bit of a shoddy reputation, because baron de Naris was a right bastard and let robbers roam free and wouldn’t lift a finger as long as they only _hid_ on his land and didn’t _cause_ _trouble_. The Baroness was endlessly sick, now even more reclusive when expecting, suddenly left to govern over the province in proxy of the unborn hier, her husband bedridden since-

Jaskier frowned, tapping his lip.

Baron Norbert de Naris and his wife, Bibiana… didn’t they have a reputation for more than just turning blind eye to robbers all around them? But what was it?

Fuck, why didn’t he put a bit less work into forgetting everything to do with his home?!

He rubbed his face and sighed before plopping down onto the grass. The noon was passing, the wraith definitely not showing up as it was supposed to. Which means it was most probably those little things that stirred trouble. And Geralt must’ve known it, because he let him walk around as bait.

Which probably also means something went wrong since he still wasn’t here.

He sighed and turned his head, glancing at the monsters. They looked almost harmless, stumbling about and flinching whenever they left the slivers of shadow by the bushes.

He almost felt sorry for them.

“ Loo-li, loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay…” he hummed, smiling briefly when one monster turned its head his way. “Lay down your head and I'll sing you a lullaby… back to the years of loo-li lai-lay.” He continues slowly, gently, trying to ignore the stench of rotting flesh and ash that came his way as two little things stumbled closer.

Well. At least they don’t seem any more eager to attack him. And stopped moving around. He really has to finally bully Geralt into giving him some list of monsters and what to do with them.

“And I'll sing you to sleep and I'll sing you tomorrow, bless you with love for the road that you go…”

It didn’t look like the things were hostile at all. They crawled closer, making Jaskier’s eyes water at the stench even as he breathed through his mouth to sing. They were wet, slimy and he had to keep his bare hands and face away from the tapered tongues that worked like leeches’, if the small bite on his wrist is anything to go by.

Still, they crawled by him and just… laid in place, squirming a bit as if they tried to bury themselves in the ground, grass sticking to them, but not doing anything else.

He sighed internally and closed his eyes, trying to relax as he turned to humming. Best to wait for Geralt, what else can he do?

He must’ve dozed off, because the next thing he knew was suddenly jostled awake and away, a screech piercing the air. He scrambled to sit up and look around, absentmindedly stroking at a little monster that was pressed to his tight.

“Geralt!” he sighed in relief, but then he noticed a sword in his hand and a new monster in front of him, hunched over and still reaching his waist, spines protruding from rotting skin.

“Don’t move!” Geralt swiped his sword, but even Jaskier could see he completely avoided the monster, as if he just wanted to scare it off and not hurt it.

Jaskier sat up properly, covering his mouth with a sleeve to stave off nausea. He barely had time to wonder where this thing even came from when the little thing by his side started thrashing around, moments before its skin rippled. It imploded, body stretching until it jumped at Geralt as well, now two monsters attacking like mirror images of each other.

Jaskier cursed, looking at half a dozen other monsters moving around, one of them squirming in place already. If they all turn and Geralt won’t hurt them,  _ they’re fucked _ .

Wait, babies transforming into monsters,  _ he read about it _ , what were they called-? No matter. He remembered they would attack when provoked, but they did nothing to him before, so maybe…?

He took a shaky breath and took out the whistle, blowing as loud as he could manage with panic gripping at his throat. The two enraged monsters just stumbled slightly, giving Geralt time to put up Heliotrop before the next attack, but other monsters turned his way.

“Lay down your head and I'll sing you a lullaby, back to the years of loo-li lai-lay…” his voice shook, but he forced it to work. “To guard you and keep you safe from all harm. Loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay… lay down your head and I'll sing you a lullaby, back to the years of loo-li lai-lay…” he relaxed slightly when they crawled back to him.

He continued, two monsters attacking Geralt slowing down as if dazed before one just laid down, curling up and then twisting, shrinking to quarter its size again. The other one followed a while later.

Jaskier took a shaky breath and almost choked, having completely forgotten about the stench.

“Don’t stop.” Geralt came closer, the sword already sheathed.

Jaskier glared at him weakly, but did continue singing. He watched over as Geralt surveyed the area, easily finding the raised dirt between the bushes.  _ Then _ he had to scratch his legs bloody to keep in place as he saw Geralt carry the things there and bury them, reminding himself it was probably better than getting them killed.

Whatever they were, he still didn’t remember much more than advice to  _ never attack, just run and they’ll leave you alone _ … but it was still horrifying to see something so closely resembling a child be buried in the ground.

Geralt sat down heavily by his side and Jaskier flinched on instinct, expecting to get a lecture, but instead his witcher just leaned in, hiding his face in his shoulder.

“You okay?” Jaskier reached to stroke his hair and made a face as he saw his dirty hand. He wiped it clean on the poor excuse of a dress and then brushed his fingers over Geralt’s temple.

Geralt wrapped hands around his waist, pulling him closer. “You stink.” He mumbled and Jaskier let out a startled laugh.

“Well, don’t take hours to come next time and I won't cuddle up to monster-babies.” He snorted and leaned his cheek on Geralt’s head. “What are they?” he asked after a moment.

Geralt tensed and Jaskier rubbed it away gently, stroking his arm.

“Botchlings.” He heard, after a while. “Children born dead, wrongly buried, hidden away…”

Jaskier made a face, looking over to the bushes.

“What do we do with them?

“Aymm Rhoin.”

“The elven naming? Why?”

“To give them peace… and I won’t ask how you even know what it is.” Geralt pulled away and looked Jaskier over. “Please don’t try to  _ actually _ sing a monster away next time?” he sighed.

Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“I’m simply educated, darling.” He drawled and got to his feet. “Now come on, we have a baroness to question, I suppose…” he frowned.

He still felt something was wrong here – and he soon got his answer.

What held Geralt up was Norbert’s servant luring him away to some cellars, under the pretence that a monster was actually showing up by midnight as well. The whistle got waved off as wind passing through the long corridors, but singing couldn’t be shrugged off like that. One use of Axii let Great know enough to send him running.

“I might’ve overreacted.” he admitted as they walked in the hall. “When I saw you with them all… I knew I shouldn’t attack them, but I couldn’t stop myself.” Jaskier laced their fingers together and bumped their shoulders.

“Which taught us I make for an  _ awful bait _ , at least.” He offered, relieved when the shadows in Geralt’s eyes lessened a little.

Bibiana was waiting for them in the dining room and when Geralt started explaining what they found, she became inconsolable for long enough they were forced to help her first before getting any explanation. That they got from her servants and castle healer.

The story was ugly, as ugly as anything Jaskier could think up when it came to nobles.

Baron didn’t fancy himself children, but didn’t want to waste money on mages nor keep it in his pants. So he let his wife get pregnant and just made sure to get rid of the problem  _ soon enough _ .

Time, after time, after time.

Until a hunt gone wrong broke his spine, just as Bibiana was with child again, leaving him helpless, impotent and with only one sole manservant still willing to do his bidding.

They forged the story about wraiths, planning to use Geralt to solve their problem. His servant was going to poison baroness and blame another lost child on rumours about witchers making you impotent.

“You’re kidding.” Jaskier shook his head, glad he left the room pretty soon to change clothes – and to avoid stabbing someone, if he was honest.

Children. Innocent children, dying and bearing this cursed existence, just because a man was too horny and too cheap.

“I hate him.” He almost snarled, shivering at his own voice.

Geralt looked him over and sat by his side under the window arch.

“She will perform the rituals. They will turn into lubberkins, protective spirits. It’s the best outcome to hope for.” He explained, rubbing at his arm.

Jaskier was glad, truly, but the seething rage just wouldn’t stop, making him clutch the handle of his knife.

“I still wish we could kill him.” He mumbled and turned to lean his head on his witcher’s arm.

Geralt hummed and kissed his temple, fingers brushing through his hair.

“There is irony here.” He said. “Botchlings feed on the blood of pregnant women, but she assumed it to just be nightmares. That’s why she was always so sickly. Had he just left her alone, the strain would’ve killed the child, maybe even her too.”

Jaskier laughed, open and mocking.

“I hope you explained it to him?”

“In detail.” Geralt grinned, pulling his head back to lean for a kiss.

Jaskier sighed and closed his eyes, almost gluing himself to Geralt for a good while, anger slowly seeping out of him.

They left soon, despite Bibiana’s offer to house them however long they would need. Even with the ritual performed, Jaskier couldn’t imagine sleeping in this place. He wished her all the best and wrote down the song and chords to the lullaby he sang, but after that they took their pay and left.

He made himself busy in the tavern, taking only one meal to come up with a song about Norbert he deemed good enough. Then he spends a glorious evening mocking his impotence, while of course leaving the baroness and the heir out of it.

“That was unnecessary.” Geralt raised a brow at him as Jaskier all but collapsed at their bed, late in the night.

Jaskier just toed off his boots and laid his head more comfortably against witcher’s thigh.

“The fiffff’ ale was un’essssessary.” He yawned, words slurring a little. “Son’ is pure jus’ice.”

“Right.” Geralt brushed his hair away and he leaned into it, pressing his forehead to his cool palm. “No revenge here, huh?”

Jaskier mumbled something in agreement, falling asleep soon after.

They left the town in the morning, crossing through the market to get Roach a new blanket and restock on a few of Geralt’s herbs since they were grown here. Jaskier took the chance to slip away and quickly found a stall, to buy some milk and get Kestrel honey.

He sent an order for it ages ago and that’s why he wanted to stop here, the contract working out as a handy excuse. It’s a rare delicacy, gathered from wild hives on the slope of the mountains, but supposedly working like a drug.

Geralt told him once that Kestrel mead – which he knew was made with this exact honey – was the only thing able to make him drunk that was made by human hands. So he wondered what would happen with just honey. Three tablespoons would make a human hallucinate, so he hoped just one in a warm drink would give them a nice high or something like that.

He should cook with it and see if Geralt ate the dish, thus accepting his courtship, but he found himself willing to ignore customs in favour of just doing something nice to Geralt. They were already together, little rituals were nice, but he didn’t need them anymore.

He never had to be sneaky about his feelings again, after all. He could be as open with his affections as he wished.

He kept the honey hidden until they made camp in the evening, waiting till Geralt left the damper bread to bake and went to lead Roach to a stream.

He poured out some water to boil and took out two cups and put down honey, then cinnamon. He dissolved honey in hot water before he added the milk.

It tastes as nice as he remembered it, though less sweet since Kestrel honey had little sugar in it. He was putting it safely away, covered with handkerchiefs, when he noticed the cinnamon smell still in the air.

And coming from the fire.

Geralt caught him as he was sniffing at the baking bread and his blush was telling.

“Did you buy cinnamon to make them?” Jaskier grinned, moving away to grab the cups.

Geralt shrugged.

“You need something to cheer you up or you’ll be insufferable.” He tied Roach up and Jaskier rolled his eyes in mock offence.

“Me, insufferable? Pure slander!” He waited for Geralt to sit next to him and pushed the cup to his hand. “Well, guess we courted each other this time.” He said innocently. “Milk with Kestrel honey. Just a single spoon, so neither of us should feel too bad..?” he trailed off, leaning his head on Geralt’s arm.

Geralt kissed the top of his head and took the cup.

“Probably.” He took a sip and made a satisfied noise. “I promise to bear your insufferableness gracefully, if it does.”

Jaskier poked him in the side before taking a sip himself.

As far as the worst contracts went, it didn’t end up too badly.


	34. In which Jaskier decides to get marked.

Jaskier sighed, tapping the saddle. He was left with Roach,  _ on her _ even, Geralt out to actually lure out a harpy as they neared Dol Blathanna.

_ Lure it out! _ Because there was a notice for its brains and the money was good!

“If he gets himself killed I’m gonna find a mage to resurrect him just so I can do it again, myself.” He grumbled, reaching to brush through Roach’s mane.

Geralt even took his lute, because the shiny detail was really good for reflecting sun, so he couldn’t play away his anxiety!

He never worried like that before, he knew it. Not when they were just friends and not when he realised his feelings. Now it was somehow even worse, as if being allowed to love him made the risk of losing him so much more painful a possibility.

The worry of how much pain Geralt might feel, dying alone, was even worse.

He jumped to the ground when he heard something, hand on the handle of his knife.

An ugly head came between branches and he threw it by habit, a panicked scream lodged in his throat. It hit the thing in the neck as it moved – a second later and it would’ve landed in Geralt’s arm.

“I  _ ha _ \- am so angry at you.” Jaskier ran to him, looking his witcher over for any wounds.

It took some effort to watch his words, sometimes. Geralt took throwaway comments much more personally and he never wanted to call him monster by accident, without fever to make it obvious he doesn’t mean it.

“Sounds more like you’re hungry.” Geralt smirked and threw the thing on the ground. “Harpy’s too lean to make ham, but we can check in Andar.”

“Very funny.” Jaskier punched his arm and then sat down, to take out his knife. He wiped it down before reaching for the neck, to sever the head and get to the brain when it’s still fresh.

He never noticed when he got so used to butchering monsters, but his handy bag of treasures was now two bags actually. The new one was entirely filled with pastes, tonics and medicines galore, though, so he didn’t really have much room to complain here.

“Wait.” Geralt reached to stop him, almost getting himself cut in the process.

“Can you not?” Jaskier glared at him and then just sighed at the witcher's face.

He looked giddy,  _ great _ , that never boded well for his clothes when there was a corpse laying around.

“It’s a type of harpy that keeps to Grey mountains.” Geralt turned the head to show its back. “See those? Sharper than anything.” He tapped one of the horns on its head.

Jaskier tilted his head, looking closer. The horns grew flat from the nape and round to the sides, coming up into sharp tips, the edge clean and even. It looked a little like a heart cut in two and turned upside down.

They would be handy blades with right handles, but really?

“That’s why you wanted it?” Jaskier shook his head. “You could’ve just bought a new weapon, you know?”

“Not like this.” Geralt reached to pluck a feather and then cut it on the horn in half.

The  _ harpy feather _ , which Jaskier had quite a few of and knew the shaft would sooner break his hand than bend!

“How-?” he resisted the urge to press a finger against the edge, to see just how sharp it was.

“They hunt wild sheep and the fleece sharpens the edge with every stab.” Geralt explained. “I can put them in handles and teach you to use it? They’ll be more dangerous than the knife, but…”

“I know.” Jaskier leaned against him.

There was a dark bruise on his arm, another one on his hip. Some bastard cornered him at the last tavern they visited and decided to hold him ransom, to get Geralt to work for them. Jaskier reached for the knife, but couldn’t aim in the cramped space and the blade broke between the bastard's ribs. It could be mended, but they had to send it to Rinde for repairs.

It would be nice to have some backup, actually. The empty sheath burned at his thigh worse than when he was getting used to the constant weight. He got one of Geralt’s spares in replacement so he wasn’t defenceless, but it wasn’t the same.

“So!” He clapped his hands and sat up straight. “How do I do it, cause you probably need to start keeping Roach from eating feathers again.” He sighed.

Geralt cursed and ran to her, to tie her a little further away.

This Roach decided lately that monsters were not scary anymore and looked like a snack. So far she took a bite of a dozen different things, luckily never fast enough to swallow before either him or Geralt got to her. She was still trying though.

“Just break the bone by the base and separate them. I’ll have to ask Vesemir for an exact blueprint, but I should be able to put in the handles and make it into something small enough to be concealable.”

Jaskier nodded and started working, trying to ignore the smell as he took out the brain first.

“Speaking of Andar.” He put one of the horns away and wiped his forehead. Breaking bones was never fun. “Wanna help with the tattoo or do I have free reign?” he joked.

He was beginning to wonder if he should just assume they will always court each other, whenever they go. Now Geralt was arming him, which he should commemorate with a tattoo. The tradition came from times of war with elves, which soured it slightly, but the sentiment was nice enough.

He felt Geralt’s look and kept working, hiding his grin.

His witcher was already adorably drawn to any claim he left at him, be it kiss-swollen lips or a small bite on them or a bruise from being held too tightly. Jaskier could only imagine what he’d think or do when he got something permanent for him.

“As long as it’s decent.” Geralt answered finally and Jaskier nodded.

He waited till they were done with the work, materials portioned, corpse burned, the horns wrapped and put away.

“I’ve got an idea, I think.” Jaskier stopped brushing Geralt’s hair and wrapped arms around him. “Here.” He put up his palm, splaying his fingers. “Your medallion on my wrist. I’m already called White Wolf’s bard, might as well make it official?”

He did not get a verbal answer, instead pushed to the grass and kissed within an inch of his life. He couldn’t say he minded.


	35. In which Jaskier schemes.

Sabra was the last city on the edge of Dol Blathanna. Jaskier had no idea why Geralt wanted to stop by, wondering if it had to do with the elves, at least until they reached the city. Then Geralt turned so quiet and subdued Jaskier would’ve worried if it wasn’t painfully familiar. He was like that in Rinde, when he talked about his family and what happened to them.

He wasn’t sure how to help, so he just did everything he could. He helped set out camp by the city’s walls, kept an eye on Roach, made the dinner from provisions they had, never pushed Geralt to talk and kept his singing to a minimum.

It wasn’t until he went after Geralt into the city proper that he recognised the festivities. Honey pastries everywhere, paper lanterns in the shape of honey-combs and children dressed up as bees…

“It’s the Summer Skylit, isn’t it?” he grabbed witcher’s hand, trying not to grimace as his fingers were almost crushed and only brushing Geralt’s palm with his thumb. “Well, let’s look around before evening, shall we?” he offered and pulled his witcher gently towards one of the stalls.

Geralt let him, looking around almost in a daze and barely speaking as Jaskier pretended they were just happily browsing.

It was another war-born tradition. To sooth people grieving after those who died in the war, they made a festival. A song and dance to send them off peacefully during summer solstice, celebrating past bliss before focusing on the future. It got added to an existing courting festival and now it was just one big celebration.

It starts cheery, with honey theme everywhere, kids dressing up and freshly baked sweets, then a public dance and song performed in the main square before people can light small lanterns and let them fly off. Courting comes in the next they, people writing little songs to dance with in private.

Jaskier wasn’t sure why people of Aedirn thought bees were the messengers between worlds, but things like that rarely made sense…

He pulled Geralt to the still empty square, watching over as the raised stage was put up.

“How often?” he asked and had to wait a good while before Geralt even turned to him.

“Hmm?”

“How often do you take part.” Jaskier turned to look at him, still holding his hand.

Geralt sucked in a breath, tensing for a moment, before he shrugged.

“Every few years, since- and yearly, after Blaviken.”

Jaskier nodded slowly and looked discretely around. They shouldn’t be overheard, but he still wasn’t comfortable doing it here.

“Then I’m happy to do it with you this year.” He said lightly and pulled Geralt back to the market.

Luckily he found them a room, a notice begging for a singer set up in the window of an inn. He agreed to join the celebrations, gave quick proof he can reach the right notes and was allowed to take over a small room under the stairs.

“Let’s lay down, hmm?” he pulled Geralt after him again, pushing him gently to the bed.

He took off his armour, piece by piece, making sure to kiss every sneakily stitched heart that he could still find. It had the desired effect of providing a distraction, so when he all but laid on top of Geralt, his witcher came to himself well enough to wrap arms around his waist.

“Talk when you’re ready.” Jaskier kissed him on the chin and then laid his head on his chest, listening idly to the slow beat of his heart.

There were no more talks like the one in Rinde. He didn’t push and Geralt didn’t offer, so he let it be, but now…

“If we’re together, I’m bound to share your troubles.” He said quietly, reaching up a hand to stroke Geralt’s arm. “You deal with my  _ incessant screeching _ , I can deal with your grief.”

Geralt flinched at that, eyes squeezing shut. Jaskier just waited.

“I came sometimes, to set off a lantern. For them. After- the tournament.” He said finally, slowly, arms holding Jaskier tight enough to make his breath hitch. “Then yearly, after- Blaviken.” Geralt took a few calming breaths.

Jaskier bit his lip, hesitant, trying not to imagine the sheer guilt Geralt must’ve felt, after Blaviken, after destroying reputation for all the withers, heavy and weighing on him enough he would come here to try and beg gods for some mercy.

“Would you want me to know?” he said finally, turning his head to see as he reached to Geralt’s hair with his free hand, to make sure the hairpin wasn’t digging into his skin or getting bent.

Geralt pushed a cheek against his palm as he tried to move it back so Jaskier just left it there.

“You should.” He gasped out. “You never- should’ve believed them, but-”

“I  _ knew _ .” Jaskier shushed him gently, squirming in his hold until he was able to move up enough to kiss him. “I always knew it was lies. I will  _ always know it _ , but if you want me to understand, I will listen.” He hesitated, again.

He never knew what exactly to do in this situation. He wished he could put Geralt in the bath and pamper him before all this, or at least after.

Geralt kept silent for a while, eyes still closed. Jaskier wondered if he saw it all happened again, memories replaying as if he lived through them.

“It was a trap. Mage after her, Renfri after him… I-I tried to stay out of it, curses rarely work if at all, but-” Geralt took a shaky breath. “She held a girl hostage, to drag him out. He never would’ve, but I had to stop her and- she wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t  _ leave _ a-and-!”

“Shhhh.” Jaskier covered his mouth, leaning in to kiss his forehead, feeling the rabid breaths against his fingers. “Breathe for me, darling, it’s all over… shh, it’s over now. Just memories.” He changed position, putting them on their sides to hug Geralt close.

He quickly ended with the witcher huffing into his neck as he slowly unbranded his hair. He started playing with it, stroking the base of Geralt’s skull and laying gentle kisses along the side of his face.

He wasn’t gonna press, this told him pretty much everything he needed. A mage and this Renfri, both wanting to kill the other. Geralt probably tried to make her leave, to abandon her plan, because trying to reason with a mage was a lost cause by design, but when she didn’t, he had to kill her.

He remembered two dead werewolves and hugged Geralt closer.

“What was the curse?” he asked, remembering the vast records in Ban Ard he wasn’t allowed to even breath at. This was a mage, not a sorceress, so he had to have come from there, right?

If he could get there again, maybe  _ persuade _ Triss to help conceal him enough to find out the curse and the details… maybe, just maybe, find some proof Geralt wasn’t completely in the wrong…

“There was no curse.” Geralt laughed, the sound broken and bitter. “The Black Sun brought no vengeful goddess, only death upon innocents.”

Jaskier’s blood froze over, his hands moving mechanically without a conscious choice.

_ Black Sun. _

Curse of the Black Sun and little girls murdered one after another, all at Stregobor’s hand. Stregobor, whom he talked to and ate meals with and whom he placated for a week. Living happy, still working, without a care in the world or any guilt for how he destroyed Geralt’s life.

Jaskier bit his tongue till it was numb, to keep himself relaxed, to keep himself quiet. He focuses on Geralt, petting his hair and leaning in to kiss him quiet just in case. He couldn’t keep the façade if he heard anything else.

This far in Aedirn, he has a few people he can send urgent letters to, asking for information. Renfri born under the Black Sun would be easily found and with that he would hear what actually happened, even if only before Blaviken and not in there.

He knew enough of what happened there to fuel his own nightmares.

They spend the rest of the day in the room, Jaskier humming quietly and coaxing Geralt into fitful sleep. He had to shush and calm him down every little while, the wild look in his eyes as his mouth moved without sound telling him all he needed to know.

Jaskier’s blood that froze over was slowly melting, rage making it simmer, making it boil.

He sighs when he hears the first bells and brushes his fingers through Geralt’s hair before gently shaking him awake. He sighs again as those golden eyes blink at him lazy, before blackening.

“You’re utterly precious, are you aware?” he chuckles and slowly sits up, pushing Geralt lightly.

It takes them a good moment to get his armor sorted out so they can leave, Geralt still a little dazed, but seemingly in a less agonized way. Jaskier’s glad he knew the rules of the festival and that they still had time before it begins, especially when they stop by to buy a lantern and a brush-pen.

He still pulls Great after him, at the square pushing through people before he finds some free space by the stage.

“Stand here and don’t you dare leave, you hear me?” he whispered, glancing over at the other singers gathering, the dancer strapping on small glass lanterns with tiniest candles already lit inside them. It’s the point of the dance, to keep flames alive during dance like a guiding light. “Stay here, love. Wait for me.” He pressed their foreheads together.

“I will.” Geralt sighed before smiling, a short, shy thing, but more honest than anything in the last days. “Can’t have you worry, can I?”

Jaskier grins and kisses him on the nose just to see him fighting to keep down the blush.

“No, you can’t.” he agrees and then turns to climb the stage, the fire there slowly burning.

He barely answers people who try to chat him up, excusing himself with nerves of a last minute job. A lovely old woman coaches him through an old trick to forget the crowd and it’s one he actually didn’t know, which is to imagine he’s mute – it’s almost insulting in its simplicity and the laugh it drags out of him eases his nerves a little.

He still barely remembers words, wringing his hands and feeling just like he did at his first audition in Oxenfurt, when they would decide whether he should be truly admitted to the additional courses and the atrium.

Luckily he was only one of the supports, so he didn’t even have to start.

“Memory~!” A young girl starts out, the people already dancing in slow, precise movements. Jaskier blinks away tears at the way her voice is breaking, strained from crying that left the sleeves of her blue dress damp. “All alone in the moonlight, I can dream of the old days - life was beautiful then…” She stops.

“I remember~.” an older man picks up for her easily, clutching a medallion. “The time I knew what happiness was.”

“Let the memory~” Jaskier joins in then, letting other people guid him as needed. “Live again~!”

The lines repeat then, intertwining, the dance moving in almost hypnotic circles. Slowly it lulls Jaskier into relaxing, but that brings a danger as well. With words spilling out easily without much thought, he can focus on other things.

Like Stregobor and figuring out how to utterly decimate this worthless excuse of a human being!

He barely catches himself when melody changes, the moon high and bright in the sky.

“Daylight~!” the young girl who began the song steps out again. There is a fire burning in the middle of the stage and she throws something into the flames. Memento, to give to the lost soul so they can carry it with them and to lift the weight of grief. “I must wait for the sunrise, I must think of a new life, and I mustn't give in.”

Other people come along then, most of the singers throwing something into the fire. Jaskier wishes he knew about this before, that he could’ve helped Geralt to try it out, to maybe lift just the smallest bit of grief.

He’s sure his witcher never tried it on his own, probably adamant to keep the weight of his loss close and never letting it go.

“When the dawn comes, tonight will be a memory too!” he joins other singers at the last moment again, blushing as someone pats him comfortingly on the arm. “And a new day will begin…”

The words repeat and twist again, the dancing slowly coming to a stop. Then the small lanterns are taken off and belted to a long pole, to let people use them to light the paper lanterns. Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief and runs to slide off the stage, barely stopping himself from jumping straight down into Geralt’s arms..

“Want to light it somewhere more secluded?” he asks quietly, holding onto this hand. “We don’t need that flame. Igni fits more.” He adds gently, seeing the hard edges to Geralt’s stiff posture, the way he’s flinching this way and that, clearly overwhelmed with all the sounds and scents.

Geralt opened his mouth to protest, but someone’s crying broke out and he actually shivered.

“Fine.” He grinds out and they pull away from the crowd.

Jaskier was ready to march back to their camp, if need be, but Geralt found them a place on the edge of the square, a little nook between two buildings hidden by the shadows.

A tiny flash of Igni is enough to light up the small candle and Jaskier looks away as he holds the lanterns still, Geralt tracing lines on its side, the replica of his medallion that Jaskier recognizes immediately. He spent enough time rubbing out monster gore caked onto it during baths to have every line burned into his mind.

“Can I-” Jaskier cuts himself off, watching as Geralt puts the paper dome over the candle’s wiring. “Signing is technically for the courting and those start tomorrow, but… can I…?” he moves his hand uselessly and sighs.

He had no right, he knew it. It’s Geralt’s family and loss, he might try and share his grief but it doesn’t belong to him, he knows this, but he still wishes he could do anything to help and-

“Here.” Geralt stands behind him, arms wrapped around him as Jaskier holds his breath to keep from blowing up the candle, lantern suddenly put into his hands as well, Geralt’s palms keeping his own stable. “Sing what you wish.” Geralt pulls him a little, until Jaskier leans against him.

Jaskier does not ask how he knew, because he can admit to being slightly predictable.

“Ask not the sun why she sets… why she shrouds her light away or why she hides her glowing gaze, when night turns crimson gold to grey.” He sings, softly, brushing his thumbs against the soft paper, watching the light flicker behind it. “For silent falls the guilty sun as day to dark does turn. One simple truth she dare not speak – her light can only blind and burn…” he finishes, quieting down and leans against Geralt as much as he can, turning his head to rub a cheek against his stubble, trying to ground himself.

They stand like that for a while, before Geralt pushes his hands to kick the lantern up into the air, a gentle Aard pushing it safely between buildings until it’s a bright spot against the dark sky.

They return to the camp in silence and Jaskier makes them the honey drink sans milk, adding just a bit of Kestrel honey to let them unwind. They still close together, Jaskier holding onto Geralt like a lifeline.

As he wakes up now and again to Geralt thrashing about and gasping for breath, a plan starts coming together in his mind.

He promised Stregobor to make a song about him, in Ban Ard. It’s high time to keep his promise.


	36. In which Jaskier makes enemies.

Gulet is not the prettiest town, not especially wealthy, but they have lord Ratho of that Minfords, their massive library second to none in the kingdom of Aedirn. Jaskier has never been there in person, but he met the lord in Elaina’s ball and since then exchanged occasional correspondence. He gave him a little bit of knowledge gained as a witcher's companion, just small details here and there, but it means that Ratho now owes him enough to join his plan with little convincing. Honestly, as soon as Jaskier promises his written account, the man is salivating at the mere prospect of bearing witness to such historical disaster and its fallout.

Jaskier has never been more glad for people’s obsessions.

He keeps Ratho’s role small – he only needs him to make sure that at the next little scholars’ party of his, Stregobor will be in attendance… and so will Jaskier and Geralt. Anything more would drag him into the later mess and Jaskier does not want that.

It’s a little cruel, he supposed, that he shares this with Ratho, but not Geralt, but then this entire plan is cruel. Cruelly deceptive, cruelly public and cruelly reliant on hurting Geralt to keep Stregobor unawares and complacent to the right moment.

More than once Jaskier wonders if he shouldn’t just stab the bastard and be done with it, but he can never convince himself it would sate his raging fury. It’s not enough, it’s too little, it’s too peaceful.

He doesn’t want the mage to only pay up for his schemes once, no matter how severely. He wants him to be robbed of everything and pay for the rest of his life, fully aware of who caused it and why.

It’s cruel, but he needs this to work, with a visceral want that gnaws at his bones and twists his insides. So he ignores his heartbreak and keeps his behaviour as normal as possible, following Geralt south.

The castle is unassuming, built into a small hill that precedes the mountains, but Jaskier knows from whispers in Oxenfurt about the entire labyrinth of libraries, safe underground, taking up many times more space than the stronghold above it.

The people definitely react when they join the crowd in the main room, but their burning curiosity and whispered academic discussion about witchers are a far cry from the mistrustful glances and angry tones that Geralt would’ve expected.

Jaskier revels in it, glad that at least a bit of the party will not be agonal to him. He deserves some relaxation before the scheme begins.

“Come on, socialise for once?” Jaskier pokes at Geralt’s arm, repeating himself for umpteenth times. “Those people are all scholars. Worst you should expect is being asked to correct assumptions about monsters or if you can resolve some historical disputes. Who knows, you might even find someone interesting to talk to!” He says as he surveys the room.

He asked Ratho to keep Stregobor busy at first, agreeing on music he shall use to announce the start of the plan. The less suspicious his performance, the more it will sink into people’s minds.

“I know those eyes~! Following me… dark and familiar and deep as the sea~!” a bright, lovely voice sounds in the air and Jaskier stumbles, surprised.

“It’s fine.” He pats Geralt's arm he had to clutch to keep upright and then pulls him to an alcove with high windows, sun shining through. There is a platform put up and Jaskier grins when he sees who’s standing up already, a fiddle in her hands and golden hair pinned up on one side.

She also looks ready to murder Jaskier on sight, which only makes him grin wider.

“Go socialise for one song at least!” pushed Geralt lightly in the direction of a few scholars nearby. They’re watching them like hawks and he recognised one of the men as an opportune lecturer from Oxenfurt. He remembered him fondly enough to trust Geralt should be fine for a moment.

“How can you stand there, a whisper from me? Yet somehow, be so far away?” Cilla continues and Jaskier takes out his own lute, throwing the case by wall before stepping up to the platform. “In eyes once familiar, a stranger I see with so many words left to say~!”

“This man is dead.” He joins in the song. “He is no more. He died a little each day.” He kicks his boot and smiles when they make a nice sound, the platform hollow on the inside. He takes a moment to pick up the tune as well, adjusting a string or two to keep melody light.

It’s lovely so see her and he cannot wait till the song ends. He will have to needle her for information if they’ll have a chance. It’s been ages since he heard from her, almost since she left Oxenfurt, still as Percy.

He swings the lute over his head as soon as he sings out the last words and goes to hug her, careful to keep far away from the fiddle. He still remembers the weeks she took revenge on him for breaking her bow in the academy.

“I take it you two know each other?” Geralt sounds mostly bemused, but also slightly perturbed, so Jaskier quickly lets Cilla go and turns to him.

“Darling, let me introduce to you my very best friends and lovely rival, Pri-hii!” he jumps when she sneaks up on him, fingers jabbing into his sides. “Prettiest lady in the Continent,  _ Callonetta _ !” He corrects himself and Priscilla rolls her eyes at his antics before she sits on the edge of the platform.

“You’re the White Wolf, I take it?” she asks, looking Geralt up and down with a smile. “How are you dealing with him? Impossible to get rid of, once he sticks to you.” She nods her head in Jaskier’s direction and he snorts before sitting next to her.

“ _ He _ resents that accusation.” He said, annoyed on principle.

Because who wouldn’t stick himself to her, when he found three idiots trying to rip a dress from her cause she dares dress as she always wished in Melody?

“Sarah all but adopted you, but I don’t hear you complaining.” He teases her, wiping his face with a sleeve.

Priscilla shrugs, waving her legs.

“Nice to meet you.” Geralt smiles. “I gave up trying after the first year.”

“Hey!” Jaskier crosses his arms. “As if you were ever trying.”

“Constantly.” Geralt gives a long-suffering sigh. “You just completely ignore it.”

“Yeah, he’s blind like that.” Cilla snorted.

Someone called up for another song and Jaskier stood up before she could.

“You talk, I’ll change with you.” He waves her off. “Please let me keep some dignity?”

“Not a chance.” She grins and Jaskier barely hides his own smile.

He picks up a lute and sings as he’s asked to, glad to see Geralt and Cilla get along as they talk. Some scholars still come up to them, every now and again, but he knows she’ll sooner bite their heads off than let them bother either of them unnecessarily.

She may joke he sticks himself to those he wishes to help, but the way she’ll jump down the throat to whoever she deems rude enough is even worse. She wasn’t expelled only because she ran from the academy before they could officially kick her out.

But with higher ground Jaskier easily spots Ratho and with him the  _ guest of honour _ .

So after another song, he bows and jumps off the platform again.

He steals a cup of wine from Geralt and gulps it down, hoping alcohol will help his heart quiet down. The way his witcher only rolls his eyes fondly does not aid him in that.

“Do you sing only classical tragedies?” he asks, bemused.

“They aren’t just scholars, they are bookworms, Geralt.” Jaskier shrugs, leaning against Geralt.

“Our songs are from grand historical plays.” Cilla shrugs too and sips her own wine, sending Jaskier a knowing smirk which he pointedly ignores. She knows his family flower and braids, he won’t spell it out for here. “I’ll bet my pay that even the foods are some famous dishes from great books of old.”

Jaskier takes a few minutes to chat with them before he goes back on the stage. He takes a calming breath and kicks his heels against the platform, the metal ringing out a rhythm before he starts playing.

“The world is a place where the villains wear a smile on their face, while they take what you can never replace.” He starts out low, looking over the crowds to find Ratho. ”Stolen moments gone forever!”

It’s petty, to signal out his plan like that, but he wants to give Stregobor the bare minimum of warning. He doubts he will notice it, but it makes him feel less like a villain, even if the guilt is just a drop in an ocean of pure fury.

“I have a nice show that will tempt you onward… and just when you’re sure that the prize is yours…” he takes a deeper breath and kicks against the stage again, some people recognising the song and slapping with him. “I’ll deliver hell to your doorstep! Dressed in a rich façade! Then, I’ll burn you to the ground like an angry god!” he moves on the stage, watching as Ratho steadily comes closer and trying not to focus on that at the same time. The words roll out of hit tongue by habit, his mind completely unfocused.

Instead he concentrates on grabbing into his heart and then locks it up, as securely as he’s able. Otherwise he’d never go through with it and he needs to.

No matter the price.

“It’s a place without any mercy, fashioned in cold blood! Stones of fear and stones of doubt! No forgiveness, no way out! Only justice! Don’t you doubt~!” he holds onto the last note till he loses breath, slightly dizzy as he slowly comes to sit on the edge of the platform.

“That sounded… vicious.” Geralt raises an eyebrow and Jaskier can only shrug, his tongue tied at the knowledge of what he’ll need to force it into saying in just moments.

He could come clean, right now. Just tell Geralt to trust him, at least, or that he’ll be lying... but then it might not work. And he needs it to work, more than anything in the world.

“What, you think all I know is ballads and laments?” he grabs the witcher's hands, brushing his thumb against some cut on his finger. He wonders where it came from and tries to ignore guilt seeping into his chest.

He is still forever worried how little his songs actually help Geralt, he still worries he could never repay him for keeping his feelings hidden for so long. He worries he’s not enough, that the witcher will bore of him, will realize how useless Jaskier is when his reputation is once again good.

It’s the single most meaningful confession Jaskier could ever gift him… and yet it might also cost him everything. Still, even knowing the risk he cannot make himself stop.

“Jaskier!” Ratho came over and Jaskier forgot how to breathe when he noticed who was by his side. “Here, let me introduce to you-”

“Mage Stregobor.” Jaskier cuts in, barely keeping himself from forgoing the whole plan when he feels Geralt’s hand slip from his own. “I had the honour of meeting you in Ban Ard, though I wouldn’t expect you to remember.” He put on a fake grin and shook mage’s hand.

He didn’t miss the way Stregobor’s eyes strayed to his side, smile widening.

“Jaskier, of course.” He said, the tone perfectly pleasant. “I see you keep to the most interesting company… but you keep yourself safe, too, I hope? One can never know with his sort…” he gave Geralt a pointed look and Jaskier wants to grab the words to shove them right back his throat.

“Well, safe enough, I’ll say. “ he says lightly with a raised brow, slinging the lute over his arm and giving a barely noticeable nod to Ratho, to let him know he can now wait for a good moment to leave. “Someone of your renown must’ve long forgotten the pains of looking for a good sponsor to provide you with stable work!” he grins and turns to drape himself over Geralt’s arm. He has to bite his cheek bloody when he notices the confusion in his eyes slowly turning into betrayal. “Can’t say I’ve not been busy with him!”

He knew how it sounds and that’s exactly why he said it like that.

“Right, I’ve heard about your little campaign. Praising the witcher’s name, can’t say I would personally condone it… much too dangerous to keep up with them, at least for simple humans. You never know when your life might be endangered.” Stregobor shook his head in perfectly false worry. Jaskier recognizes it, he spent his entire childhood seeing it daily. “I do hope that it pays well, at least? Wouldn’t want you to be… taken  _ advantage _ of. Bards are so often treated as a commodity.”

“Watch your words!” Geralt spoke up, finally, a hand clutching at Jaskier’s arm and trying to pull him back. “We were leaving.” He adds, more quiet, and Jaskier’s heart breaks over what he has to do.

He will fix it later. For now he has to just be convincing.

“No we weren’t.” he slaps his arm gently and gives him an indulgent look. “Come off it, witcher, I’ve known you to be wary of mages, but this is ridiculous.”

“Do forgive him.” Stregobor smiled behind his cup as he took a sip of wine. “We’re not on great terms, I fear… simple disagreement about work, I assure you, but, well, what can you expect from a witcher?”

Jaskier fakes a laugh, trying not to choke on the bile rising to his throat. He clutches onto his lute to stop himself from stabbing the bastard with his repaired knife.

“Hope you don’t mind the questions.” Stregobor smiles at him. “I’m simply worried. One can never know, when it comes to things… inhuman.”

Jaskier shrugged, biting his cheek again to keep up the smile. He almost wished Geralt would storm off, but he has a sinking feeling he won’t, no matter what should happen, because of Cintra and he hates himself for it that much more.

“I keep him safe.” Geralt protested, but his voice sounded so unsure Jaskier’s heart broke for him.

A little more. Just a little more, a few fake pleasantries and he’ll be able to put his plan into life…

“I’m sure you do.” Stregobor didn’t even fake sincerity there, taking another sip of wine. “You do deserve congratulations, bard. How you’ve managed to clean his name, I have no idea…” he grimaces briefly and Jaskier feels petty satisfaction, “…but it has clearly worked, if talks in Temeria and Cintra are to be believed. You certainly have my respect for that.”

Jaskier hesitated, for just a moment, and decided to risk it.

“Respect doesn’t make history.” He says softly, hoping it will be enough, and quickly claps his hands to cover Geralt’s sudden gasp, barely able to keep himself from looking. “My songs have already led me to the royal wedding! Cintra  _ was _ lovely, I must say, even if I could do without the whole magical mess…” he shrugged. “I prefer to live on in songs than dusty books.” He forced out the last smile.

“To each their own, I suppose.”

“Right!” Jaskier jumped a little in fake surprise. “I recall promising to write a song about you, didn’t I?”

“Yes, I think you might’ve-”

“Great!” Jaskier grinned, finally honest. “No time like the present.” He says. “If you're amenable, of course?” he adds, an afterthought, lute already in his hands.

Stregobor frowns, but then nods his head, so Jaskier kicks his heel against the platform to get some attention.

“My good people gathered here, we are privileged today to share time with one of the greatest mages of our time!” he shouts and starts walking around Stregobor, to subtly push people away into giving him space. “To honour such an occasion, I shall humbly perform a song commemorating his deeds!”

People whisper around, some cheering him on. He notices Ratho looking his way and shaking his head, Cilla glaring daggers into him, but he doesn’t allow himself distractions.

When he decides there is enough space singling Stregobor out, he climbs the stage and starts playing.

“Stregobor, the mighty mage, was called upon to come in aid to Crayden lustrous, on a day so bright! For king’s first born little girl as many of you must’ve heard was born on day as black as darkest night.” He sings and for now stays in place, to keep himself from looking at-

He’ll fix it. He’ll fix it all later.

For now he praises Stregobor, trying to ignore nausea scratching at his throat when he noticed his satisfied smile. He doesn’t allow himself to look to his side at Geralt.

No distractions.

He took a calming breath and changed the melody.

“Oh, isn’t it magic~?” he holds onto the note and then turns, slowly looking over the people around, relieved to see Ratho sneak away, whispering to Cilla’s ear as he pulls her along. Good, Jaskier doesn’t want them dragged into this mess. “And isn’t it tragic how the tale of Sun-kissed princess quickly warps…” he stills his fingers. “Soon, no more princess, only Shrike and in cold tower, scalpels cutting at a corpse.” He clicks all his  _ c’ _ s and lets the sharp alliteration bring attention to him.

Where people were still talking among themselves before, there is now silence. He sees Stregobor frown and barely keeps from showing his joy.

“Hundred chosen little girls, a river flowing red with blood, would call Lilith to come down and reign her terror upon land!” he continues, luring the mage into a false sense of security again, to keep him calm until it’s too late to stop him.

He ignored the way his heart broke as he saw Geralt still rooted in place, the pleading,  _ betrayed _ look in his eyes.

Later. He can’t stop now.

“Stregobor has saved the world!” he kicked his heel against the ground as people cheered. “Or, for years, that’s what he thought, until the Sun-kissed princess caught his eye.” He lets the melody change again, quietening it. “As Stregobor took home in Crayden’s grand keep, high tower was assigned to let him work in peace. And little princess, shining bright, was sent there daily, so her light could be studied to stake judgment fair upon it.”

He took another breath to calm down and made the melody faster, and started moving around.

“But soon come rumours within whispers! So insidious, so sinister!” he kept closer to the people, letting the quickening pace grab their attention. “Puppies drowned and cut to pieces! Maid with eye torn out and eaten! Don’t get me started on the guard, they say she left him truly mauled as she escaped into the night! And poor man that queen sent after, such cruel death for him was crafted! Brought back bloody, brought back dead, with broach running through his head!” he drags his nails sharply over the strings, the broken sound echoing in the room.

He lets the silence hang for a moment, two, watching Stregobor smile and not watching Geralt’s reaction, before he picks up a slower melody.

“She remembers no puppies, she remembers no maid. Naught of time spent on studies, just her hands dripping red as she fled mage’s tower, so afraid of the power that was warping and twisting her brain~!” he lets the note hang and turns in place again, looking over the people.

_ He’s got them _ . Nothing works better to capture attention than a sudden twist, and people here are hungry for knowledge. He knew he would, he planned for it for days, but small fear it would fail still nagged on his brain.

The fascinated stares and sharp focus, all on him, drown out his guilt just a bit.

“But she remembers the forest and the merc on her trail, she remembers being caught and the words that he said, and rough hands, oh, so vile, and her body – defiled, and the gleam of a broach in the moonlight.” he doesn’t let the faster melody let up, changing it rapidly. “Soon, no more princess, only Shrike, then in cold tower, scalpels cutting at a corpse.” He turned to the people, looking as many as he can in the eyes. “Oh, isn’t it tragic~? How a bit of magic sneaks into a mind and takes hold. And days flutter by, stories spread wide and far, nicely cleaned up before being told.”

He has no illusions that people will suddenly just believe him, but that was never his intention. No, what he wants to achieve is to make them curious, the bookworms and scholars obsessed with knowledge will do the rest of the work all on their own. They will remember what he sang and then remember about Geralt and then study the facts.

They will find no proof of the curse and a trail of dead children. It will be enough.

He turns, looking at Stregobor and relishes in his quiet fury. He walks to the edge of the platform and then jumps down, heels clicking on the stone ground and echoing his lute as he begins to play again.

“So toss a rock at mage’s head! Till his hair is dyed red! As red as hands of little princess that in a tower lays dissected by Stregobor’s greedy hands!” he stands right in front of him, almost daring him to do something. “Run Stregobor from every town! Pass by if you see him drown! Stalk him into darkest night, like a princess that at his word was endlessly hunted down!”

Stregobor fumes, looking ready to slit his throat, but they both know he can’t. Any aggression, any sign of anger will only make his song sound more believable. He cannot defend himself and the irony is delicious.

Jaskier knows it all, planned for exactly that and relishes in mage’s powerlessness. He knows it will never match his own feeling of helpless rage, the months he spend watching Geralt’s torment and being unable to help, but it’s a good start.

“And when true horrors he has met, let him live but not forget, the Sun-kissed princess and the fate much worse than death.” He finished and put his lute down to bow properly. The silence rings out in the air, deafening. “Was it to your liking? I feel it  _ immortalized your deeds _ flawlessly.” He smiles as he straightenes, bright and wide.

He feels a shift in the air by his side and barely keeps himself from turning to look.

“You little-!” Stregobor tries to reach for him, but-

“Careful.” Geralt caught his hand and kept it in place for only a moment. “He stabs.” He says, crossing his arms.

Stregobor rolled his eyes and grabbed Jaskier by the arm.

“You mean he bi-arghh!”

Jaskier smiled with all teeth, pulling the knife from mage’s thigh.

“He meant  _ stabs _ .” He hissed out and put the knife away. “Now run off, before I remind people just whom you tried to blame for your crimes, merely days away from his home.” He added, deadly quiet.

That’s why he chose Gulet, among many other things. This close to Rivia, even Stregobor wouldn’t be dumb enough to publicly antagonise its witcher. Especially now, when his fame spreads over the entire Continent, even if the attitude isn’t really too kind yet.

Stregobor knows this and the cold fury in his eyes tells Jaskier he realizes it was planned. He only smiled wider, till his face hurts, moving a step closer to Geralt, knife still steady in his hand.

“You’re spewing nonsense.” Stregobor bites out finally, hand pressed to his leg. “I’ve no idea what lies your Butcher fed you, but-”

“Lies?” Jaskier gasped, much loudly, playing up the affront. “Are there some records of the curse you can provide for it? Or some proof of the girls you murdered being  _ dangerous  _ before you sought them out? Or maybe signs of the curse  _ working _ ?” He raises an eyebrow, easily planting ideas of what to look for in people's heads. “I will apologize at once whenever you present it… but until you do, with all  _ due respect _ \- stop threatening me.” He smiles with all teeth and cold satisfaction. “I bite as well.”

Stregobor looked ready to fight him, but people around were still whispering and enough of them looked ready to throw hands if needed. Stregobor clearly had a habit of boasting about this particular endeavour of his and there is little more that scholars like than being misled.

Especially when it comes to murdering children by a hundred.

“You’ll pay for it.” Stregobor snarled before turning in place and escaping by a portal. Jaskier grabbed someone’s cup and threw it after him, hoping it hit the bastard in the head. Or at least spilled on his wound.

Then Geralt grabbed his wrist and pulled him along as the room descended into rapid discussions. Jaskier stumbled a little, trying to match his stride and stop his heart from jumping out of his chest, questions chasing them as they fled.

He clutches his lute, the twitchy movement of flowers in the pin sat in Geralt’s hair almost mocking him.

They stop by some alcove, far enough from the main room that they barely hear anything.

Jaskier waits for Geralt to turn, fingers twitching against the lute. He’s ready for everything, ready to even leave his witcher alone and give him time, should he demand it. Anything to repay for what he had to deal with here, without being in the know.

“Marry me.”

_ That _ … he wasn’t ready for, at all. Not now and not ever, but there is only one answer he can give.

“S-since you ask s-so nicely.” He laughs through his words and moves closer, pressing their foreheads together, but waiting for Geralt to start the kiss.

They do talk properly, much later, both warmed up by a bath and cuddling in bed, Jaskier’s fingers brushing through damp hair as Geralt lays with head on his chest.

Jaskier explains it all, his short stay at Ban Ard and meeting Stregobor, realising the truth in Sabra and his plan to destroy mage’s reputations. He apologises and swears to do anything to make up for it.

Geralt, the soft-hearted fool, forgives me and only asks to be told whenever Jaskier plans something again, even if he cannot be given the details.

It’s probably not gonna go away that easily. Jaskier knows it, promising to himself to never lure Geralt into a mess like that again – knowing his witcher would forgive him, time and time again, but the hurt would linger and one time it would finally be too much.

They stay like that, until Geralt falls asleep. Jaskier keeps awake, to guard him and to soak in the soft expression on his face.

For the first time in a week his witcher stayed asleep almost till morning, no trashing or nightmares disturbing his rest. Jaskier doesn’t delude himself into thinking all if fixed, those things take much longer to heal, but it’s a good start.

He knows there will be consequences, too. Stregobor is not one to just stand by as his reputation is ruined. He cannot stop it now, but Jaskier just showed him how satisfying revenge can be. There will come trouble after this stunt, but for now…

For now, Jaskier’s life is perfect.


End file.
